


It's Inevitable

by leporidae



Category: Tangled: The Series (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Blood and Injury, Family Issues, Gen, Heavy Angst, Not Selfcest, Self-Hatred, Time Travel, Trust Issues, can't stress that enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2019-10-14 00:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17498630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leporidae/pseuds/leporidae
Summary: Varian gets a second chance to fix everything.But this time, he has a new ally: himself.





	1. Chapter 1

When Varian opens his eyes, the black rocks have vanished.

He’s sprawled out on the ground outside, and before him looms the door of his own lab. The glorified shed and his father’s house next door are otherwise unscathed by the spikes that _should_ be everywhere but are not. Ruddiger's favorite apple-bearing trees are not impaled through the trunks, and the foliage around their roots is entirely undisturbed save for a few stray bite-marked apple cores discarded at their bases. Varian looks from the trees, to the stairs, to the fenced trail stretching back towards Corona — _no rocks._ The last time Varian had been here, it had been difficult to even traverse the path without tripping over one of them.

_What’s going on…?_

The alchemist remembers everything that had transpired: experimenting on Ruddiger, kidnapping Queen Arianna, trying and failing to use Rapunzel’s hair and the drill to free Quirin from his amber prison… and then, he had lashed out in desperation with an automaton, if only to make Rapunzel understand how he’d felt upon losing his own father. With sweaty palms and trembling fingers he had operated the controls from up high, blinded by anger at the sight of the terrified faces below him and fully prepared to crush Rapunzel’s friends and family into nothing but red stains in the automaton’s mechanical fists.

 _Red._ Everything had glowed red, he had seen and _felt_ red, and then Rapunzel had activated the rocks, and the red had flashed to dazzling blue as one of them slashed through the belly of the automaton. And then —

Nothing. That’s where Varian’s memories suddenly halt, as though a crucial page had been torn from his mind's textbook. Now he finds himself back home, but the battalion of Corona’s guard has vanished, along with Rapunzel and the rocks, and it makes no _sense — s_ cientifically speaking, of course. Even operating under the possibility that the last several months had all been one long and terrible dream, there's still no way he could have lived through that elaborate of a fantasy.

And yet...

Groggily Varian stands, one hand outstretched to brace himself on the door frame. If he can find answers anywhere, they’ll be in his own lab, where his father is entombed. ...Or not? If the rocks are gone, perhaps he won't find Quirin's petrified body at all.

All he knows for sure is that he must press forward. When something initially doesn’t make sense, there’s only one acceptable form of action: forming hypotheses about the situation, and subsequently testing them. One cannot both be a man of science and shy away from the answers to unfathomable questions.

The door creaks softly when Varian opens it, a familiar sound that quickens his pulse. Quirin had promised to oil the door at one point, but his constant responsibilities as the leader of Old Corona had of course caused him to forget that promise. Now the quiet squeak of hinges serves as a painful reminder that Quirin is no longer even around to make good on his word. But the rusty door is something he had expected — after all, he knows the intricacies of his lab better than anyone.

It’s the noise that comes after the  _creak_ that freezes Varian in his tracks.

“D-dad? Is that — is that you? Ahaha, uh — lemme just, um — put my books away. It’s so messy in here, give me a minute —”

 _That’s…_ my _voice._

Varian’s knees shake. He takes off one glove and wipes his brow with the back of one hand, desperately glancing back once more towards the entrance as he debates the possibility of fleeing after all. The last time he had felt this hot and cold at the same time was the unfortunate incident in which he had created a chemical whose fumes had induced in him a week-long fever. (During that time, he had hallucinated a very complex alchemical debate between himself and Ruddiger. That had been a dark seven days of Varian’s scientific past.)

Now, only a feverish hallucination could explain hearing his _own voice_ calling out to him from within his lab.

 _One cannot both be a man of science and shy away from the answers to unfathomable questions,_ Varian reminds himself sternly, though the words feel less motivational now and more of a threat. Every step he takes is heavy, like wading through knee-deep snow — another experience he does not wish to repeat — but he steels himself forward.

Varian swallows, and steps into the lab.

Scrambling about at his desk is the figure of a boy: young and wiry, with black hair up sticking haphazardly from under the strap of his goggles. His limbs are flailing frantically as he shoves capped beakers into drawers and tosses blankets over scribbled blueprints strewn all over the table. Under the table is a familiar raccoon, huddled in the shadows with paws glowing faintly pink, no doubt left over from one of many encounters with Varian’s trapping solution.

“...Looks like Ruddiger got in again,” Varian says, voice echoing too starkly in the silence, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

There’s a painful, heavy lull as the other boy’s head whips around and he gawks at Varian slack-jawed. He gasps, a strangled, disbelieving sound, and the two of them are clearly having the same thought: _you’re me._

The other Varian screams.

It all happens in an instant: Ruddiger darts out from under the table, dashing between his doppelganger’s legs, and he stumbles forward into Varian, who remains too shell-shocked to brace himself. In a tangle of limbs the two mirror images slam to the dusty floor together; the other begins to cough, and Varian feels his own vision begin to sway as his forehead painfully smacks against the floor. With a grunt, Varian shoves the other off him, which proves to be more difficult than expected considering they’re the same size, and rises shakily. The other Varian does the same a moment after, and the two stare upon one another, completely and utterly speechless.

The diagrams on the table are still partially visible despite the other’s poor attempt at hiding them, and Varian finds his eyes wandering to the sketchy designs, all labeled with his own system of shorthand. They're old designs, diagrams of past failures, and with that knowledge comes another realization, crashing down upon him with enough force to make him physically reel.

This is not Old Corona after the rocks had vanished, but rather Old Corona  _before they had appeared at all._

“Those designs,” Varian begins, ignoring the spluttering noises emitting from the other’s throat. “They’re for — for the hot water heaters, aren’t they? The ones I — you — _we_ built in the tunnels. To help Old Corona…”

The other Varian nods mutely.

“Dismantle them,” Varian says sternly, and the other flinches. “I hate to tell you this, but they’re going to explode, and it won’t be pretty. And Dad won’t be happy about it, either.”

“But the margin of error —” the other Varian croaks, and Varian can't help but feel a bit uneasy hearing his own voice coming out of anyone else, even if that person wears his same face and mannerisms. “I calculated and recalculated for any anomalies and all possible outcomes, and the margin of error was only —”

“ _Point-five-seven percent,_ ” Varian interrupts dully. “I know. I — I calculated it, too. But as long as things can go wrong, they do.” He looks the other in the eye, watching his reaction in the living mirror standing before him. “For us, they _always_ do.”

The water heaters had been Varian’s last major project before he had met Rapunzel and her friends. That combined with the knowledge that the black rocks are gone — no, that they _hadn’t sprouted yet_ — leads to only one possible conclusion. A near-impossibility to be sure, but much like the water heater, the possibility of traveling back in time isn’t zero.

“You…” The other Varian looks at him with mystified wonder. “You must be from my near future… somehow.”

They’d had the same idea, then. (Of course they did, since they’re the same person.) “Yeah,” Varian says softly. “...Must be.”

Instantly the other’s eyes begin to sparkle with the wonder of a new discovery. “Wow, I can’t believe you — _I_ managed time travel! All those theories about it being possible, and I never even considered trying it myself. Wait — now that I’m thinking about time travel, does that mean this was the incident that got me thinking about doing it? So you’re here right now because you planted the idea in my mind about time travel at this point in the timeline — whoa, this is so cool.” Past-Varian is suddenly mere centimeters from his face, peering intently at his features as though through a microscope. “You look to be about my age, so this must happen pretty soon. Gosh, wow, I must really make some massive leaps in the next year or so. Are you even a year older than me? Maybe I’ll have a breakthrough even sooner than that!”

Varian steps back, a bit uncomfortable. _Is this how I always make others feel…?_ “Uh — yeah. Er — I can’t say anything about that, of course, because I may alter both our timelines.” _Also, because I have no idea how any of it happened._ “You understand, of course. Er, time paradoxes and whatnot. It’d be, um, pretty bad if we erased ourselves out of existence because we had the wrong conversations, yeah?”

“Oh, you’re right — well, of course you’re right, _I’m_ right, of course we’d both be — right.” Past-Varian laughs nervously, but a moment later, his face falls, and he looks at Varian with grim understanding. “If you’re here, does that mean — does that mean something bad happened in the future that you’re trying to fix? I can’t imagine being interested in time travel otherwise.” His voice cracks. “Did I — did _we_ mess up really bad…?”

Outside the wind whistles through the trees, its presence amplified by the sudden chilly silence between them. It is in that moment that Varian knows he can't tell his counterpart about the fate of Quirin, no matter what. One devastated Varian is quite enough for this timeline, and if all goes well, there would never have to be a second one. Varian's impromptu leap back through time is clearly the universe's way of giving him a second chance, to prevent any of the impending catastrophes from unfolding a second time.

He locks eyes with Past-Varian, and shakes his head.

" _We_ didn't mess up anything. We tried to save Corona from the mistakes of others — and failed." Varian's fists clench at his side as he pushes the image of Quirin away and clings to what he so desperately wants to believe is the truth. "But this time, we're going to set things right." Slackening his fingers, he holds one hand outstretched to his past self and puts on what he hopes is a reassuring smile, despite the darkening cloud of doubt churning in his heart.

"You trust me, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another weird fic courtesty of me. I am so sorry, Tangled fandom.


	2. Chapter 2

“So you’re telling me that Old Corona gets destroyed by these ‘magic’ black rocks in the future, and there’s nothing science can do about it? I’m calling some shenanigans, Future-Me. First of all, magic is just the layperson’s term for ‘scientific explanation that hasn’t been discovered yet.’ Second of all, there’s no such thing as a _truly_ unbreakable mineral. If they’re rocks, they should have some sort of flaw.”

Varian sighs. He had almost forgotten how _enthusiastic_ he had been in the recent past. Unfortunately nowadays he can’t seem to muster the same enthusiasm about, well, _anything_ . Getting betrayed by everyone you ever trusted can do that to a person. “I get what you’re saying, and at one point I would have agreed with you. But as hard as it is to believe, they really _don't._ They _don’t_ have a flaw, they _don’t_ break, and they _don’t_ have a scientific explanation. At least, not yet. That's where me being here comes in, so I can hopefully buy myself a little extra time to figure out a solution before Old Corona gets... well, for lack of a nicer way to say it, ripped apart.”

He had spent the last hour or so filling in Past-Varian, though he's made sure to do it selectively. Telling his doppelganger about Quirin’s fate is out of the question, and getting him involved in Varian’s revenge scheme against Rapunzel will simply make him seem unstable. So he describes the crisis as he would a natural disaster, with as little detail and emotion as possible, as though he’s reporting the future's weather.

“So that’s why you came back, then?” Past-Varian taps his chin thoughtfully, and the gesture makes him look very young. “To do extra research?”

“Well, that amongst other things,” Varian admits. “I, er, can’t tell you what it is exactly that I want to stop, because I’m afraid you knowing might… make it happen again, somehow.” Furrowing his brow, he runs one hand through his bangs, uneasy about keeping information from his past self. Doesn’t acting secretive make him the same as everyone else — dare he even think it, the same as his father?

But Past-Varian just nods. “I’ve always thought if you can’t trust your own instinct as a scientist, then you’ll never get anywhere with any discoveries. And trusting you is basically trusting myself, so —” Another nod. “Just, uh, promise me you’ll tell me more details about what's going on if the situation starts going critical, okay? You know, _two heads are better than one_ and all that  —” With a nervous laugh, Past-Varian picks at his sleeve, still hyped up on the adrenaline and impossibility of the situation. “I mean, _technically_ it’s just one head two times, but you know  — yeah.”

 _Promise me._ A knot forms in in the pit of Varian's stomach at the words. “Yeah, of — of course. But that aside for a moment…” Avoiding the conversation is cowardly, but there are more pressing issues right now than the future of promises he may or may not keep. “Can we go over the plan for today one more time?”

Past-Varian rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna screw up, you know. You’re starting to sound like Dad. Er — kidding, kidding,” he amends quickly when the color drains from Varian’s cheeks. “But all right, let’s go over it once more. Scientific method dictates a sound and precise set of steps before beginning an experiment, after all. So here's what I've gathered: Rapunzel and her friends come to me for help, which is really cool by the way, but apparently it doesn’t go right, and that’s what sets off the catalyst of the mess with us and the rocks, right? Also, the water heaters explode because they get overloaded with the heating compound I haven't named yet, they take out a few buildings, and dad gets really mad at us. That about cover it?”

“More or less.”

“It’s kind of exciting to know all this beforehand, you know? All this secret knowledge about the future. What if I’m the first person ever to relive an event after it happened? That would be pretty awesome.”

Varian resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Look, I get that it’s cool, but we’re kind of on a time crunch here. The water heaters, remember?” As much as he had hated being compared to Quirin before, Varian has to admit he is starting to understand his father’s stress a bit more acutely. His attention span in the past had not always been particularly… _stable_ , at least not when it came to listening to others. If anything messes up this timeline, it will be his own inability to tone himself down, which is a sobering thought.

“The heaters. Right. The heaters.” Past-Varian nods enthusiastically. “So you’re going to take my place above ground to talk to Rapunzel, and as _soon_ as this conversation is over, I’m gonna head underground and turn all the machines off to avoid excess explosions.” He frowns. “Are you sure _you_ can’t turn off the machines while I talk to Rapunzel? I feel like I’m gonna be missing out on some, I dunno, important timeline data.”

Varian shakes his head. “Sorry, but if you weren’t there, you won’t know how to act differently to change things. I’ll let you know how it goes, okay?”

His doppelganger sighs. “All right, fine. I trust you. But you better give me _all_ the details.”

“...Okay.” A pause. "Only if you promise to go  _right now_ and shut off those water heaters. Deal?"

Past-Varian pouts, but pulls open the trapdoor nonetheless. "Deal."

Not fully convinced, Varian leaves with a sigh to return to the adjacent building where he knows his guests will be barging in any minute now. He slips on his metal mask and sits at his desk, drumming his fingers against the wood. Rapunzel and her crew are about to arrive, and what then? He can’t very well befriend them again knowing what he does about their future unreliability, but making enemies out of them would be equally as unproductive. Is there a way to keep their relationship neutral?

As it turns out, he doesn’t have more time to consider it. With a wooden sigh his door creaks open behind him, and Varian turns slowly in his chair. Now that everything is happening again,  _actually_ happening, he can feel his resolution flicker; how will he hold it together when he sees their faces? How will he prevent himself from snuffing the royal trio out where they stand — or even more disturbingly, from running into Rapunzel's arms and begging for forgiveness?

“It’s just fog,” a familiar voice says, cutting through the silence. “I’m sure it’s okay.”

_Rapunzel._

The memory of their first meeting floods back, when he had been so nervous and selfless and eager to please, and Varian grimaces behind the mask. At that moment they trip the ball of trapping solution right on cue, just like they had before. There’s a puff of pinkish smoke that fills the lab, and Varian can hear Rapunzel and Cassandra’s coughs echoing off the walls. Idly he wonders what would happen if he left the two women there indefinitely, forcing them to stand in place until they wasted away from exhaustion and thirst. _That_ would certainly change history. Fortunately for them (but unfortunately for his desire for revenge) if Varian wants to give himself a happy ending, he’ll have to commit as little treason as possible.

_What a shame._

“F-fine, a booby trap.” Rapunzel’s voice rings out again, reassuring herself and Cassandra.

 _That’s my cue to spook them a little,_ Varian thinks, taking a step forward out of the fog. If only he were a little taller, so that he may strike a more imposing figure. But he’s not, and he will therefore have to rely on light tricks and a hidden face to catch them off guard.

“Raps, everything is gonna be all  —”

They both gasp when Varian comes into view, as menacing behind the metal mask as he can manage with his unfortunate stature.

“Who gave you permission to enter?”

It’s not what he’d said the first time, which is quickly confirmed by the newfound flash of terror across Rapunzel’s features. “Um  — hi. So sorry to bother you, sir, I… wanted to ask you about my hair?”  _It’s more trouble than it’s worth,_ Varian thinks sourly, but holds his tongue. “Because you’re such a magic expert —”

“Please — only a truly ignorant person would mistake _alchemy_ for _magic_ ,” Varian growls, the reverberation of his voice against metal giving an even angrier tinge to his words. “I am a man of science, who deals in—”

In a flash Cassandra has leaned forward, grabbing Varian’s collar in her hand even with her feet stuck to the ground, and Varian chokes as the fabric tenses against his throat. “Did you just call Princess Rapunzel _ignorant?_ I don’t care what you _deal in_ — you better know your place. That's no way to talk to royalty!”

 _Right, because royalty are_ _so_ _much more important than me. I've heard that one before._ Even as his vision blurs from lack of air, he can’t help but clench his jaw in indignation. (Now it only he could breathe for long enough to formulate an intelligent retort.)

“Cass,” Rapunzel pleads, placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “It’s, um — it’s fine, really. We did come to him for help out of nowhere, so…”

Perhaps it’s the asphyxiation talking, but Varian’s cheeks warm at the proximity to Cassandra, and he’s glad the lady-in-waiting can’t see his face. Whenever he looks at her now, the anger at her betrayal swells within him; and yet at the same time Varian’s twinges of admiration for her still remain, because she’s still strong and brave and everything that had thrown him off balance in the past. It occurs to him then that if Past-Varian is busy turning off the water heaters, he’ll never get the chance to be saved by Cassandra and subsequently develop feelings for her. His doppelganger truly doesn’t know how lucky he is.

Cassandra lets go, and Varian drops to the floor, barely managing to scramble to his feet as he gasps for air. “Take that mask off and get us out of this weird goo,” she demands. "Rapunzel's too nice to say anything, but an order from me may as well be an order from her, and that's something you'd better not ignore."

 _Wow, threatening me. Classy._ With a huff Varian lifts the visor, brushing himself off in an attempt to regain his bearings. “It’s not _weird goo._ It’s a chemical compound I — oh, whatever.” Exasperated, he rummages through his pockets until he finds the flask of neutralizing particle, and pours a few droplets from by their feet. The sticky pink substance vanishes with a sizzling noise as quickly as it had appeared. "So sorry...  _Your Highness._ "

“You’re a _kid_ ,” Cassandra says in disbelief.

Varian rolls his eyes. “That's no way to talk to an _alchemist_.”

“W-well, that doesn’t matter, right, Cass?” Rapunzel interjects, desperate to do damage control before Cassandra tries to throttle him again. “Sorry for just barging in here like this, um — Varian, was it?”

He nods brusquely, determined not to let himself get caught up in her friendly cheer all over again. “You said you _needed_ me for something, Rapunzel?”

“Since when are you on a first name basis with her?” Cassandra demands, folding her arms across her chest as she stares down at Varian, a bird of prey ready to strike.

Luckily Rapunzel speaks again, before Varian can stammer a reply to his (former?) crush with false bravado. “It’s _fine_ , really! 'Rapunzel' is fine. It, um, it makes us feel more like friends.” She runs her hands nervously through her signature hair, before gathering the strands into a bushel of sorts and holding it out to Varian. “Do you think your mag— sorry, your _alchemy_ could tell me anything about how my hair suddenly came back?”

Varian realizes then that he’s at an impasse. He told Past-Varian to shut down the water heaters, which means nothing will explode during their meeting, and the spectrometric press that printed her results will remain intact. That also means that if he runs the same tests on Rapunzel’s hair as he has before, she’ll get the data she desires… and then what?

For that matter, why should she be _allowed_ to know?

“I’m not sure,” Varian says cautiously, and it’s not quite a lie. “Well, I _suppose_ we can try.” He’d have to deal with destroying the results before Rapunzel can get her promise-breaking hands on them, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. With a grimace he strides to the other side of the room and pulls the tarp off one of his inventions with a halfhearted flourish. “This machine can analyze any substance for chemical makeup, bitopic composition, _and_ —” Halfway through the introduction, Varian realizes he’s replaying the scene exactly how it had transpired before, and he clamps his mouth shut. If he wants to change history, he’s going to have to be a lot more careful about avoiding any paths that will lead him to the old outcome. This time travel business really is a pain in the… _hair._ “The details aren’t important, _Your Majesty._ The point is, I built this machine for substance analysis, and as far as we know, that ‘magical’ hair of yours is a substance. Running these tests will be — well, it certainly won’t be _fun,_ I can assure you of that.” A slight smirk curls his lips at the thought of Rapunzel’s impending distress. “But if you’re willing to endure a little, we might be able to find the answers you desire.”

_Too bad you’ll never endure enough. Not by my standards._

“Tests? As in multiple tests? Raps, are you sure you wanna —” Cassandra’s uncertainty is interrupted as Rapunzel enthusiastically climbs into the machine’s chair, a determined and almost maniacal smile stretching across her face. “Rapunzel!”

Rapunzel fastens the machine’s security belt around her waist and turns her head as much as she can muster from her angle in the chair. “Let’s do this.”

Varian assumes his position to start the machine. “Brace yourself… _Rapunzel._ ”

Rapunzel’s screams of distress when the metal claws begin tugging at her hair are wholly satisfying, but Varian does his best to keep his amusement off his face lest Cassandra storm over to where he stands and knock his admittedly-fragile body to the ground. The last time Varian had met the two women in his own timeline, he had smacked himself in the back of the head with a rotating mirror and nearly passed out from the sight of his own blood. Being at the receiving end of Cassandra’s wrath would almost certainly result in a lot more blood loss than that, and that’s a fate Varian would really rather avoid.

The machine slowly whirs to a halt. “And there we are,” Varian says. “Done.”

“All right, not super fun, but… it’s over?” Rapunzel inquires hopefully.

“Only the first test, unfortunately,” Varian says with as much fake regret as he can muster. “Eighty-six more to go.”

Cassandra looks like she wants to kill him, which Varian tries to ignore as he starts up the machine for the second time. He already knows Rapunzel’s hair is unbreakable, but he has to go through the motions of the tests anyway. For science, of course, and _definitely_ not to stall Rapunzel while he tries to think of a natural way to destroy the upcoming results.

The second test involves the circular saw blade Varian had installed amongst his other tools, and he almost doesn’t remember to duck in time when the whirring blade snaps clean off against Rapunzel’s hair and hurtles across the room by the sheer power of inertia. Having a jagged piece of metal lodged in his frontal lobe in this timeline would certainly change its history, but that’s not exactly the way Varian would like to go about doing that. “Yeah, that’s unbreakable, all right,” he says with an offhanded shrug, heart still jackhammering in his chest at the near-death experience he had just avoided a second time.

“But I’m betting _you’re_ not! Let her go!”

Posing at the doorway with one accusatory finger outstretched toward Varian is none other than Rapunzel’s unrefined boyfriend himself. Varian had almost forgotten that this whole explosion debacle had also involved Flynn Rider — no, _Eugene Fitzherbert_ . The princess’s plus one is _not_ the daring adventurer whose biographies Varian had pored over time and time again in his younger childhood, and he’s certainly not on Varian’s side in the future, since his loyalty lies with Rapunzel and Rapunzel alone. Secretly Varian wishes he could look at Eugene again without the taint of his disillusionment corroding his once-fond memories of the man, but what's done is done.

“Eu-eugene! Hey!” Rapunzel's smile is strained as she turns to face the unexpected visitor.

“Blondie! You’re okay! ...You wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

Rapunzel glances at Cassandra, who pointedly stares at the wall to avoid helping her. “...Ahaha.” 

“You know what? I don’t care. I’m getting you out of there.”

When Eugene takes a step toward the machine, Varian mirrors his movement and steps between them. "Careful now, buddy. Halting the experiments midway might make the machine malfunction and hurt the princess. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"  _Okay, maybe I_ would _want that, but that's beside the point._

With displeasure Eugene looks back and forth between Rapunzel and Varian. When neither makes any motion to begin clarifying the situation, Eugene grimaces. “Would someone please explain to me who this child is?”

“Hmm? Oh, my name’s Varian. I’m an alchemist,” Varian says offhandedly, his machine letting off a soft _ding_ as another test comes to a close. “And you’re Flynn Rider — or should I say, ‘Flynn Rider.’” With a swooping motion he makes a pair of giant air quotes around the words. “I read all the books about the real Flynn Rider — he was basically my hero. But you’re not him, are you?”

Understandably, Eugene looks uncomfortable. “Er — no. No, I am not. But I'm flattered that, uh, I was your hero at one point? I mean, I _am_ still a swashbuckling, criminally handsome thief and all, but unfortunately the books are about the last guy named Flynn Rider. The somewhat more famous, but  _much_ less attractive Flynn Rider. Which by the way, isn’t actually my name. I go by Eugene now.”

"Right, right. My mistake." Around this time in the last version of this interaction, the ground had begun to shake. Varian waits for a tick, but… nothing happens. He sighs with relief. Apparently Past-Varian had taken his warnings to heart despite his distractibility and turned off the machines, or at least is currently in the process of doing so. And without the explosions, the conflict with his father won’t happen, either. That’s always a plus. “Ah — the spectrometric press,” Varian reminds himself. “Right. I have to grab that, so I can read the results.” Hadn’t he shown Eugene the water heaters around this time before? Though he clearly can’t do that now, he still has to stall as long as possible to figure out a plausible way to botch the results. “So, ‘Flynn Rider —’” Again Varian makes air quotes around the name, sarcastically — “Wanna come with?

“Ooh…” Eugene taps his chin in mock thought. “...No.”

“If you come,” Varian says with a secretive smile, moving toward the door and beckoning slowly, “I’ll let you in on something special. But you’ve got to keep it a secret.”

Just like in the past, this Eugene too craves validation, and Varian knows when his face lights up that the other man has officially been hooked. “You want to tell _me_ a secret? Did you hear that, everyone? _Veritas_ — Var — Veri —?”

“...Varian.”

“...A _complete stranger_ wants to tell _me_ a secret.” His chest puffs proudly, and Varian can see Cassandra rolling her eyes from across the room.

The machine yanking Rapunzel's hair is left running as they step outside. Varian had almost forgotten what a nice day it had been back when they'd met, and how idyllic Old Corona still looked. No jagged, hellish rocks puncturing crops and wells and people's homes; no lifeless, terrified citizens dodging out of the way of the spikes as they clawed through the ground like the claws of an unholy leviathan seeking to tear their peace apart. The sun still shines, the paths are navigable, there's still fruit on the trees, and the vitality hasn't yet been drained from his hometown. Varian's fists clench with barely-restrained anger at the thought of the impending ruin, and he's filled with renewed determination to never let such a fate unfold again.

“Listen, buddy," Eugene says as they enter the adjacent building. "I need you to tell me everything that the princess told you.”

The alchemist carefully lets his rage fade before answering, lest he startle Eugene with an overly-impassioned response. "I wish I could, but, er — well, for one, she didn't tell me that much." _Not a lie._ "And it's not really my place to talk to you about it. I mean, when an actual princess asks you for help, that's a lot of responsibility, you know? Plus, I don't want to, I dunno, ruin your relationship by saying things I shouldn't." Not truly paying attention to his own words, Varian rummages through beakers and other retired scientific knick-knacks on his shelves, his scowl deepening when his search yields no results. How had he managed to misplace the same object two times in a row? _Note to self: organize my belongings better in this timeline._

Eugene is also peering around the room with confusion. "Okay, that's fair, I suppose — Varian, right?"

"Yeah."

A sigh. "Okay, I get that you want to respect Blondie's privacy or whatever, but if she's in any danger and isn't telling me, don't you think I have the right to know?" Idly Eugene prods at a rusty contraption that snaps shut with a  _clang_ , and he yelps, barely retracting his finger in time to avoid it being severed.

“Wouldn't know. Also not my business. Ah, here we go — spectrometric press.” While Eugene is busy anxiously musing about his relationship and perusing the shelves of gadgetry with mystification, Varian gently trips a lever on the side of the press, blocking the movement with his body from Eugene's line of vision as he does so. The altered setting will print the results of Rapunzel’s tests in a numeric code, easily decipherable to Varian but very time consuming to decode. _Come back later once I’ve decided the results,_ Varian will say, and Rapunzel will agree because she’s ignorant. Once she and her friends are gone, he’s then free to alter or destroy the information as he wishes. “Can’t read the results without it. I hook it up to my substance analyzer once the tests are finished, and the numerical data is printed onto this roll of parchment paper, which in turn is fed through the —”

“That’s _muy interesante_ ,” Eugene interjects, “but getting back to what the princess said…"

“Okay, Eugene, I have to be honest with you,” Varian says, staring at the wall. This tactic may not be the smartest idea, but he doesn’t have anything better to work with right now. “Now that you mention it, I do have to tell you something about Princess Rapunzel. It’s — gosh, I really don’t know how to say this…”

“Varian!” Eugene grabs him by the shoulders, and he jumps slightly. “Spit it out, I’m worried about her!”

Conspiratorially Varian leans in and drops his voice in volume. “I’m worried she’s keeping things from both of us,” he admits, glancing away from Eugene to make his hesitance appear more genuine. “I really hate to say that, because she’s the princess and all, but I was suspicious when she came here all of a sudden that she was hiding something important…”

“Me too!” Eugene practically shouts. “I mean — Rapunzel has been acting really strange lately, but I thought maybe it was more of a, well — you know, a _me_ thing. A _relationship_ kind of thing? Since right before her coronation, I did try to propo— _anyway,_ enough about me, no matter how interesting I am. So... do you have any idea? About Rapunzel’s secret?”

Varian scrunches his brow. “I may have some idea. Has she told you at all about the black rocks?”

Eugene shakes his head slowly. “Black rocks? Can’t say I ever heard of them. ...Why?”

He resists the urge to laugh. Planting the seeds of suspicion and doubt in Eugene had been easier than he had even expected. “Well, there are these strange rocks that recently popped up right outside Old Corona. They resemble big black spikes of some sort. When I looked into them, it seemed they were made up of some sort of strange, super-strong mineral that I couldn’t break no matter how hard I tried. And I’ve seen a lot of minerals in my life, but nothing quite like this. It was… fascinating, but it worried me. For a scientist, making the unknown known is just par for the course. And I couldn’t think of a way to make it known —”

“Kid,” Eugene interrupts, concerned. “Not that I don’t care about your, er, science I don’t understand or whatever, but what does this have to do with Rapunzel?”

It hurts Varian to have to lie, as though he’s disrespecting the foundations of alchemy by making up and spreading unproven theories. “When I started doing the tests on the princess’s hair, I couldn’t help but notice that the two seemed to have similar properties — her hair, and the rocks. And it made me think maybe they were linked somehow, that maybe that’s why Rapunzel didn’t want to tell you, because — ”

Eugene raises a finger to silence him, but Varian knows the damage to Eugene’s morale has already been done. “I don’t know, Varian… that seems like a bit of a stretch even to me — and I’m pretty limber, if I do say so myself.”

He ignores that last bit. “I’m just worried, Flynn — er, I mean, Eugene. It’s all right if I call you Eugene, right…?”

“It’s preferable, considering it’s, um, my name.” Eugene still seems lost in thought, which means the _magic_ of Varian’s words is doing the trick. “Why would she want to keep that from me?”

“I don’t know,” Varian says. “I’m sorry.” (He does know, and he’s not sorry.) “You’d have to talk to her. I doubt she would listen to me, and I know she trusts you, so… sorry to get you involved in this. I hope she's not too mad that I told you...”

It’s clear Eugene isn’t sure what to do. “No, no, uh — thanks for telling me. I did ask, after all. I may talk to Rapunzel once I get the chance. All that would be pretty concerning if it were true.”

Varian nods miserably — or at least, in a manner he hopes comes across as miserable. Preserving the sanctity of Eugene and Rapunzel's romance is hardly Varian's priority. “I know you guys trust each other and tell each other _everything_ ,” he says, relishing the satisfaction when Eugene winces. Clearly he’s saying all the right things to make the man doubt the strength of his bond with Rapunzel. “I may be totally wrong, and I don’t want to assume that the princess is — is deceiving us, or anything…”

Eugene puts his hand on Varian’s shoulder, and for a moment the alchemist feels his facade weaken. At one point he really _did_ want to be friends with the former thief. _Team Awesome,_ he had enthusiastically called themselves. It's absurd, but he almost opens his mouth to backtrack on his own lies. _Is it too late to tell Eugene the truth..?_

_Of course it is. You’re here to save your father, not to make friendship flower crowns with the princess and her posse._

"I'll talk to her," Eugene says again. "Thanks for letting me know, Varian."

Guilt gnaws at him, but he pushes it back. "Of — of course. Hey, you know, um — even if you're not actually Flynn Rider, you're still pretty cool. I'll at least consider you for the position of my sidekick in the future."

_Why did I say that...?_

Eugene grins. "You're not half bad yourself, kid. But you better prepare to be _wowed_ even more the more you get to know me. You might wind up being  _my_ sidekick, if you're not careful."

Varian laughs, and he's dismayed to find the reflex is genuine. "I'll keep my guard up. For now, do you mind  _wowing_ me by helping me carry this thing back to the lab?"

The thief flexes both arms dramatically before bending down to lift the other side of the press. "Eugene Fitzherbert's guns, at your service."

By the time they return to the lab, the tests on Rapunzel's hair have just about finished. Humming with satisfaction that everything has so far gone according to plan, Varian hooks up the two machines, and the spectrometric press begins to slowly eject a string of numbers onto a piece of parchment. "It's going to take me a while to decode these results," Varian says just how he'd rehearsed it in his mind, and the machine  _dings_ once more as the last test is finished. Rapunzel drops gracefully to her feet as she is released from the constraints. "I hate to make you wait, but could you consider coming back later to get them? Or I could bring them to you in Corona once I'm done. Whichever's easier."

"There's no rush," Rapunzel says, though her words belie the eagerness obvious in her sparkling eyes. In contrast, the chill from Cassandra's glare is enough to freeze the room faster than liquid nitrogen. "Thank you so much for all this, Varian. Um — that reminds me, how would you like to be compensated?"

"Compensation? Ah, that won't be necessary,  _Your Highness._ " Varian smiles sweetly. "Tackling such an exciting scientific mystery is compensation enough. Though I suppose," he adds a bit softer, "if something comes up that I do need from you, well... I guess I'll just have to let you know."

For a moment, the silence is stifling.

"Let's go, Raps," Cassandra says eventually, locking eyes with Varian for a beat, and he can sense the distrust simmering beneath her cool exterior. He swallows. "Remember, kid — not a word of this to anyone. Got it?"

"You have my word," Varian assures her, though of course he fails to mention the reliability of his word.

Cassandra ushers out an incessantly waving Rapunzel and a slightly-deflated Eugene, still clearly musing over their conversation, and Varian follows them out the door to make sure they've mounted their horses and left him alone. The previously-exiled Ruddiger brushes past his feet as he scampers back inside his lab, but Varian doesn't pay him any mind, staring off at the horizon until the princess and her motley crew are entirely out of sight. When Varian is certain his isolation is once again absolute, he resets the chemical trap at the entrance before returning to the trapdoor leading to the tunnels. There still haven't been any explosions, which is a very good sign, and he raps once on the wood door quietly before pulling it open.

“H-hello?” Past-Varian’s voice floats up from below. “Is that — um — ?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Varian confirms, carefully closing the trapdoor behind him and descending the ladder. “Hey, nothing exploded. I suppose that means you shut everything off?”

Past-Varian nods enthusiastically. “By the way, I inspected the machines as I was switching them off, and — well, long story short, you probably know this already, but _so_ much pressure had built up —” He laughs nervously. “Um, basically you were totally right about the explosions, I think I caught it just in time. I can’t even imagine how mad Dad would have been if the buildings on top of these machines had been destroyed. He already thinks the accidents I’ve caused have set Old Corona back by years…” Suddenly crestfallen, Past-Varian looks away and picks at a loose string on his sleeve. “Well, I’m sure you already know all that. Er — thanks for helping me prevent that from happening. Haha, um… it feels weird to be thanking myself. But seriously, I don’t know how I ever would have made it up to him if I had — if we had —”

“It’s fine,” Varian interrupts gently. “That’s what I’m here for. ...And, uh, thanks for taking me seriously.” _Somebody has to, for once._

Past-Varian grins. “I still wasn’t sure I fully believed it before now — that you were from the future. But this really just cinches it, huh? Two Varians, champions of the present and future, banding together to save the world. Kind of has a good ring to it, huh? I feel like a superhero!”

Despite the fatigue quickly setting in, Varian chuckles. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We’ve prevented one accident, but I’m not leaving until I’m really sure the future’s fixed.”

“Mm, that’s fair. Gotta see the experiment through to its conclusion, eh?” Past-Varian winks. “Say, how did things go with the princess and her friends? Did things, um… change enough?”

How does he answer that when he’s not sure? “I think so,” Varian says after a pause. “I mean — I — we stopped Dad from getting mad, which was the main point, and we didn’t destroy Old Corona, so —”

“Varian? Is that you down there?”

Both Varians freeze. The voice from above is unmistakable.

“ _Dad,”_ they whisper in unison.

“Wh-which of us is going up to talk to him?” Past-Varian hisses. “You know he hates us being down here!”

“I’ll go,” Varian mutters back, though the thought of seeing Quirin again for the first time since the amber had sealed him away in his own timeline causes his stomach to swoop unpleasantly. “Just — don’t come up, and we should be fine, okay?”

“I’m going to hide somewhere in case he comes down. Um, please don’t get us in trouble,” Past-Varian pleads softly.

“It’s Dad,” Varian retorts, voice cracking. “I can’t make any promises.”

Scaling the ladder is agonizingly slow; knowing his father’s living, looming face awaits him sets Varian’s knees knocking. The guilt of what he had inflicted upon Quirin in his own timeline slams his conscience like a physical blow, and his hands have become suddenly uncoordinated, struggling to grasp the rungs as he hoists himself upward.

_Is it still too late to ask my past self to take this one for the team…?_

Still weighed down by guilt, he pushes open the trapdoor with some effort and climbs out.

His father stands at the entrance of the doorway, all shoulders and furrowed brows and _presence_ , everything Varian is not.

“What were you doing down there, Varian?” Quirin asks, voice as usual tinged with wary exhaustion. “Please tell me it was nothing dangerous.”

“N-no, Dad, uh —” It’s his dad, _alive_ , and right in front of him. Moving. Talking. Scowling down at him. For the first time in Varian’s life, all of that is actually a comfort. “We were — _I was_ studying. Reading. _We_ as in the ‘royal we,’ but also, uh — me and Ruddiger. The, uh, the raccoon. The one I'm trying to get rid of, but can't seem to? Um, yeah, _we._ ”

_I’m gonna go get help — !_

_No, son, don’t!_

The last words Varian had heard his father say echo through his mind as he stares up at the man in front of him, still unwilling to believe he has a second chance. Reflexively Varian glances back at the trapdoor, as though Quirin is still down there encased in amber and not standing in front of him now. The thought makes him feel a bit nauseous.

Quirin narrows his eyes, but merely sighs. “Did my eyes deceive me, or did I see Princess Rapunzel and her friends come out of here a little while ago?”

“Yes, uh, no — ‘no’ as in, ‘no, your eyes didn’t deceive you.’ Rapunzel — _Princess_ Rapunzel did come, because she was asking about, um — science.” (Technically not a lie.) “She heard I was some kind of magician, and of course I practice alchemy and not magic, and I told her that of course, but —”

His father raises one hand, and Varian falls silent, grateful for the opportunity to cease listening to his own voice. “As long as it’s not dangerous,” Quirin says again, and Varian swallows. “I hope you managed to help her with whatever she needed.” Awkwardly he looks away from Varian, seemingly uncertain what to say when he’s not scolding him. “It’s, er, quite the honor that the princess came to you for help.”

“Y-yeah.”

Neither knows what to say; the silence between them hangs thicker than chemical fog, and in unison they both glance away from one another, Quirin clenching his jaw and Varian bunching his shoulders submissively. Eventually Quirin clears his throat and speaks, a bit less authoritatively than before. “I’m going to get back to — work. ...Stay out of trouble, son.”

“Right,” he says quietly, shuffling his feet. “No trouble. Gotcha.”

_Please don’t leave again._

_I don’t know what to say to you, but I want to apologize for before._

_Dad, I’m sorry I —_

The door clicks shut as Quirin leaves, and Varian takes a shuddering breath, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes at the loss of his father’s presence yet again.

It takes all of Varian's remaining energy to drag himself back down the ladder and back into the basement that had been the stage for all his most horrifying memories; his limbs and spirit are heavy, and his past self is awaiting a report he doesn't want to give.

_I'm not so sure I want to do this anymore._

But Varian doesn't have a choice. If he doesn't change history, his father will die again.

_This time, I'll get it right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pulled out a lot of canon dialogue for this one.
> 
> ...I'm very tired.


	3. Chapter 3

Throughout his life, Varian has worked alone on all his projects. Quirin never much approved of him dabbling in alchemy, and the people of Old Corona had grown wary of him over the years. When Varian walked into the marketplace to purchase scrap metal or food or anything he needed, the shopkeepers would shrink back away from him, prepared to bolt to the bunkers at any moment as though Varian himself were a volatile chemical. Parents told their similar-aged children to stay away from him, so he had no friends to speak of, and no one with which to share his discoveries.

It is because of this that it has been extremely liberating to collaborate with someone, even if that _someone_ is simply an alternate reality version of himself. Varian lets his doppelganger work on his own projects at his leisure as he searches for knowledge that could help him quell the future infestation of black rocks, but he and Past-Varian are also constantly bouncing new ideas and discoveries off one another, and surprisingly not all their conclusions are the same.

Varian doesn’t come up from underground very much for fear of being discovered by the town, but he’s all right with the arrangement; there’s a makeshift bed of tarps and blankets bundled in the corner where he retreats every night, sometimes with Ruddiger curled up against his legs to share the warmth, and Past-Varian brings him plenty of food. Every day they eat together in the lab, poring over books that Past-Varian has borrowed from the Old Corona library in mass quantities, and they consult each other about theories over bread and cheese like an alchemists’ picnic. Talking to himself is a lot less infuriating than Varian would have imagined, and having someone around who shares his interests, even if that person is himself, has been validating.

Yet despite doubling down on their research, the two Varians have still uncovered almost nothing about the black rocks. One fleeting passage in a book about Corona’s history had interested Varian, though. It mentioned something called the “Dark Kingdom,” a place described in passing as though it were the shadow of Corona’s sun. But try as he might, Varian had found nothing more than that. Not a single librarian had heard of the place, and none of the other historical texts Past-Varian brought back to the lab mentioned it in any context.

Once Past-Varian had made the mistake of mentioning the Dark Kingdom to Quirin, and his report back to Varian had been intriguing but not promising. “All the color drained from Dad’s face when I asked him about it,” Past-Varian had said, taking a bite of a ham and cheese sandwich and spraying crumbs every which way as he spoke. “He started clenching his fists, and for a moment, I thought he was going to hit me for real. I mean, that’s silly, because Dad’s never hit me, but… ahaha, _anyway_ , I started apologizing on reflex, and he just kept staring at me with this scary look in his eyes, you know the one. I froze up and couldn’t say anything for a long time. ‘Varian, I’m busy,’ he said finally, and I said sorry again, and he said, ‘I don’t have time to entertain fairy tales.’” His story had been complete with dramatic gestures and a comical imitation of Quirin’s deep voice. “Um, I was gonna respond, but for some reason Dad seemed really serious this time, so I kinda bolted.” Past-Varian had swallowed his food and pressed his lips together. “Sorry I didn’t get anything more out of him. Um, if you want to switch places with me and try asking him yourself at some point —”

“No, no,” Varian had said quickly, waving him off. “It, uh, it sounds like you did your best. Let’s not bother Dad anymore, okay?”

“...Yeah, sounds good.”

And thus, the subject of the Dark Kingdom had been dropped.

Varian hasn’t spoken to his father since that first day he had arrived in the past, and just thinking of a second encounter makes him feel sick. Facing Quirin after what he’d done in his own timeline, not just to his father but to the entirety of Corona, causes Varian’s hands to shake and his heart to pound. It doesn’t matter that this Quirin is different when this man shares the same face and mannerisms as his own father, and that sight alone is nearly enough to send Varian into a guilty panic.

For that matter, in his current state he’s not even sure it would be wise to face Quirn. Recently Varian had caught a glimpse of his own reflection in one of his mirrors and had been shocked by how pale and lifeless he looked, dark bags sagging beneath his eyes that had formed after reading for days straight in the dark. His already waiflike body had grown weaker still from lack of sun and exercise. It had become difficult upon awakening to drag himself from his makeshift bed and to his desk to begin his daily research. But the ever-present image of his Quirin trapped in amber gives him the strength to rise and fuels his desperate craze to save Old Corona from its fate, even as the days slip by with no change in sight.

And then one day there _is_ a change, though not for the better. Past-Varian returns from a food run bearing grim news: someone who had just returned to Old Corona in a caravan had reported the sight of strange rocks to Quirin, right outside the Old Corona borders. “Dad said he’d figure out a solution,” Past-Varian had said nervously. “...But I take it he doesn’t?”

Varian hadn’t even been able to formulate an answer, too focused on reminding himself to breathe as his throat constricted with dread.

* * *

“Hey, Futarian, guess what tomorrow is?” Past-Varian, who has obnoxiously taken to calling him that as of late (Varian is too exhausted to think of anything better, and thus lets it go), slides over in a rolling chair, facing Varian from across the desk.

“I don’t even know if it’s morning or night time right now,” Varian groans, rubbing his eyes. “Also, is it just me, or are you talking really loudly?”

Past-Varian looks concerned. “Are you sure you don’t wanna, um, switch with me for a while? Head into town or something? You look kind of, well, awful. No offense, of course.”

“None taken?”

“Maybe you need some fresh air. Or exercise. If you get sick for real, there’s no way I can get you medical help, since, uh, you’re me?”

Varian shakes his head slowly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” _Hopefully._ “Uh, what’s tomorrow?”

His doppelganger lights up again, spinning around once in the chair. “It’s a big event in Corona,” he insists, leaning in towards Varian. “You know, one we both care about?”

“You’re still going to make me guess?” Varian whines. “I’m tired.”

Past-Varian frowns. “Geez, you’re also no fun. Remember? The Exposition of Sciences?”

 _Oh. That._ Varian can’t even pretend to be excited about that disaster, knowing what he does.about how it goes. “Don’t bother with that,” he mumbles, too sleepy to bother sugarcoating his words. “The guy judging is a hack and so is everyone else who enters. Win or lose, it doesn’t even matter.”

“...I take it that means you lost, then.”

Varian bristles. “Again, not my fault. But you wanna enter a worthless competition? Be my guest. I’ll stay here and study.”

“Touchy subject, I see.” Past-Varian taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, why did you lose last time? Other than the judge being a hack. You know, something we could change this time around.”

He doesn’t want to think about how the expo played out the first time, but he humors the other if only for a moment. “I guess it was mostly because I didn’t have a functional assistant,” Varian admits after some thought. “I had to find someone last minute who was, uh, inadequate.” Pointedly he refuses to bring up anything involving Cassandra. The shameful, humiliating past is in the past and deserves to stay there.

“Oh, that’s easy, then,” Past-Varian says without hesitation. “This time, I have you as my assistant. I couldn’t think of anyone more _adequate_ to help me.”

“What? I — I can’t be your assistant!” Varian splutters, suddenly a bit more awake. “We’re the same person! We can’t — we can’t be in public together! Are you out of your mind?!”

“I prefer the term ‘creative genius,’” Past-Varian says with a smirk. “But yes, maybe I am. And what of it? If we win first prize, that’s a different outcome, right? Like, a _way_ different outcome for a major life event. So you put on a mask and act the part of my silent assistant for the expo, no one ever has to know who you are, and we change the future. Who knows, it could do us good that you couldn’t even imagine. What’s the harm in trying?”

“The _harm in trying,_ ” Varian retorts, “which should be _obvious_ , is that if someone finds out that I’m you, not only will no one ever trust either of us ever again, but we’ll get, I dunno, burned at the stake or something.” He’d like to think that’s a bit extreme, but knowing Corona’s moral integrity regarding past decisions, it may very well be a possible outcome. “Dad will be horrified, you’ll probably get pulled away for questioning, and who _knows_ what’ll happen to me!”

His doppelganger is unflinching. “So, we make sure no one finds out! We can alter your appearance somewhat just in case the mask comes off accidentally, and we can go home right after the event’s over. You don’t even have to say anything, just hand me the bag of sand. In and out, we win first prize, and no one’s the wiser. No harm at all.”

“It’s a bad idea. _Objectively_ a bad idea. If you really wanted to help me change the future, we wouldn’t go at all.”

Past-Varian shakes his head vigorously. “No, I think winning might still be a better option! We could come home back to Old Corona and tell Dad and everyone that we won a big prize for our work — sorry, that _I_ won a prize, and once we’ve been recognized maybe he and everyone else will actually listen to us — to _me._ Because we’ll have some, I dunno, Corona cred?”

“I don’t think it’s worth it,” Varian says, but he can admittedly see the other’s point. (Well, of course he can, considering they’re the same person.) “I’m worried something will go wrong. Are you sure you can’t find someone else to be your assistant? Someone a bit safer?” Flashing back to what had happened before, he shudders. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll come with you.” If Past-Varian stubbornly goes without him at the last minute and scrambles to find an assistant at the last minute, well… the results would once again not be very pretty, to put it lightly.

Past-Varian brightens considerably. “Nobody in this kingdom is better at inventing things than us. We’re gonna _kill_ the competition.”

“I’d consider a different word choice if I were you,” Varian mutters. “But fine. Whatever. I still think it’s way too risky, but I’ll humor you. But I will say _nothing_ , and I will _not_ take the mask off, and I will hand you materials when you ask for them and _nothing_ else. Got it?”

“Aye-aye!” He raises his hand to his forehead in a mock salute, nearly teetering out of the chair as he does so. “Two Varians, conquering the world together one questionable Exposition of Sciences at a time. It’ll be safe,” he insists when Varian grimaces. “I promise.”

_Everything is gonna be okay. I promise._

“L-let’s just get this over with, okay?”

* * *

Corona is full of eccentric characters, some of which (such as the baker with the bucket over his head) are never seen without their helmets or disguises. It is for this reason that Varian is hardly spared a glance as he walks to the stage area with his doppelganger, squinting through his metal mask at the faces of people who cannot see him in return. He’s wearing one of Quirin’s massive old coats to hide his figure, and there’s temporary dye in his hair (a last minute concoction cooked up by Past-Varian) that transforms his dark hair into a passable brown and even hides the signature streak of blue.

Yet Varian can’t help but still feel irrationally conspicuous. No one's looking at him, but he still remembers the terror he had caused this very same group of people when he had unleashed the mutated Ruddiger on Corona. And now these very citizens are attending the Exposition of Sciences on this lovely and fair-weathered day, blissfully unaware of the kidnapper, treasonist, and nearly-attempted murderer in their midst.

For that matter, Past-Varian isn’t aware of any of it, either.

He feels a bit sick. Maybe it’s just the lack of air from the constrictive metal mask pressed against his features and restricting his oxygen intake. _Yeah, that must be it._

Beside him, Past-Varian is gazing with wonder and skepticism up at the stage where Master Doctor (as if) St. Croix is about to present his “motivational” speech to all participants. Everyone else is looking there too, not at the strange masked man in the oversized coat beside them who is tapping his foot anxiously, desperate to escape the presence of familiar faces he had disappointed once before.

St. Croix’s hawkish grin is as slimy as Varian remembers, accentuated further still by hands pompously tucked behind his back and paunch jutting forward like a pretentious penguin. “One of you will walk away with the greatest prize in all of sciences: my approval. As for the rest of you... may the universe show mercy on your _wretched_ souls. Good luck!”

“It’s not Cass,” Varian murmurs, realization hitting him then as his eyes fall on the nondescript male guard called in for St. Croix’s security detail. In the last timeline, the only reason Cassandra had managed guard duty was because he, _Varian,_ had done all her lady-in-waiting chores. This time, she must still be slaving away in the castle, loading laundry and straightening the flower arrangements in the dining hall.

_Serves her right._

“ _Cass?_ ” Past-Varian whispers incredulously. “As in Princess Rapunzel’s lady-in-waiting? Since when are you two on _Cass_ terms?”

Varian jumps. “C-cassie! Er — _Cassandra_ . Ahem. Um. Never mind? I was just thinking about… something that’s not happening this time. A timeline anomaly. Erm, a _good_ anomaly. You know... time travel stuff. I misspoke. Not important.”

Past-Varian stares at him strangely, but doesn’t press the issue.

One by one the townspeople present their lackluster creations, and Varian grows itchy with impatience, wishing he could remove the mask if only for a moment. During a particularly severe spell of zoning out, a hand alights on his shoulder, and Varian jumps, irrationally afraid it’s Rapunzel or Eugene or _god forbid Cassandra_ wishing to speak to the mysterious masked stranger. But it’s simply his doppelganger, jostling him lightly to get his attention. “Sorry,” he whispers, noticing Varian flinch. “I left the bag of sand on the other side of the stage. Can you keep an eye on the _you-know-what_ while I grab it? I know we’re up pretty soon. It’ll only take a minute.”

Varian nods silently, and the other darts off, spindly limbs windmilling comically with the speed. He hopes his past self doesn’t trip and send himself to the hospital before they can showcase their invention, which knowing his own lack of coordination is a very real possibility.

For that matter, even if they _do_ make it to the presentation, how will they still secure a victory? Fernanda Pizazzo is still going to burst in after him with her candy cannon and gaudy magnets and steal the first place honor from right under his nose, because St. Croix is a dunce with no taste or sense of what’s truly important to science.

_Pizazzo..._

Varian knows Past-Varian would never approve of the treacherous thought bubbling within him like a beaker of boiling water, because the old Varian would want to win in a fair and legitimate manner. But that’s exactly the problem — a legitimate win _isn’t_ possible, and Varian knows this from experience. The idiot St. Croix will be charmed by Pizazzo’s rudimentary levitating magnets and classical conditioning by free chocolate samples, and Past-Varian will be left as humiliated and scorned as he himself had been, even with the help of a competent assistant who’s not a delirious old drunkard.

That is, unless Varian does something to change their fate.

Synthesizing chemicals is the backbone of alchemy, and compounds that cause some form of destruction are the easiest to create (though admittedly the destruction is sometimes unintentional). A true alchemist never leaves home without an arsenal of weapons usable in a wide spectrum of situations, from the benign tidying of stains to smoke bomb distractions  — to full on explosions.

From the inner pocket of his coat he extracts a carefully sealed vial containing a shimmery blue liquid, and with one meticulous gloved hand he uncaps the substance, glancing around him to make sure no one is within eyeshot. Pizazzo’s invention is currently covered by a blanket, most likely for added dramatic effect when she whips it off during her presentation, but from what Varian can remember the machine is activated by a lever that will set the magnets to the proper angle for levitation.

In a matter of moments Varian has lifted one corner of the blanket, scattered a few droplets of the compound on the metal surface, and returned the vial to his innermost pocket. The liquid dries instantly and completely clear, so there’s no chance of Pizazzo noticing the foreign addition to her experiment.

Varian’s compound is an extremely sensitive substance designed to react with the minerals in perspiration. Just brushing up against human skin is enough to heat the liquid to dangerous temperatures in a matter of moments. Pizazzo doesn’t wear gloves, and she’s too proud to work with an assistant. The impending scenario plays out in Varian’s mind: Pizazzo will grab and trip the lever, and once she lets go and the activated compound is exposed to the air, the metal will start to sizzle. If Varian is lucky, some of the molten substance will drip onto the table and spark a flash fire.

Now _that_ ought to cause a commotion.

Only mere seconds after Varian stores the flask back in his coat and steps away from the machine, his doppelganger rounds the corner with the bag of sand clutched lopsided between his arms, panting as heavily as though he had just run several laps around the entire kingdom.

“Please try not to faint,” Varian whispers dryly, glad Past-Varian can’t see the sheepish flush of his cheeks from nearly being caught mid-crime. “It’s a real concern, especially since I know we’re prone to that.”

“I’m doing my best,” Past-Varian wheezes between breaths, face flushed up to his ears. “Did I make it in time?”

“We’re up next.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

From behind the stage sounds thunderous laughter (most likely in response to Rapnuzel’s disastrous giant fan), followed by a curt “ _Next_ ,” one of St. Croix’s signature scornful dismissals. The curtain swishes closed as Past-Varian hands the bag of sand over and drags his invention to the front of the stage, still sweating somewhat but thankfully conscious. He flashes Varian a shaky thumbs-up. Varian can’t return the gesture cradling experimental components in his arms — even if it is just sand — so he opts instead for an encouraging nod behind the mask.

Past-Varian exhales nervously before stepping onto the stage. “Behold — the power of alchemy! I give you…” Right on cue, Varian pulls back the curtain on stage left to reveal the machine. “...The Elemental Remogrifier.” Gasps of awe can be heard from the crowd as well as from St. Croix — not that the latter’s opinion really means anything. Actually, for that matter, the opinion of Corona is also pretty inconsequential.

 _That dramatic timing really does work better when your assistant isn’t a half-asleep, useless member of society,_ Varian thinks sourly, his scowl as usual hidden from the crowd.

“Assistant?” Upon being addressed Varian dutifully pours the bag into the machine’s open mouth, and he can see Past-Varian’s confidence begin to stabilize, unlike the disaster in the last timeline. Surprisingly, everything is proceeding smoothly — more smoothly than Varian could have dared to hope for. “...Well, here we go.” He cranks the lever and the machine begins to whir noisily, forcing him to raise his voice to a near-yell. “The rotation causes friction, which heats the sand while the counter-centrifugal force promotes particle compression. The end result?” Again he slams the lever, and the machine slams to a sudden halt. “Fifty pounds of sand turns into… this.” From the rotating chamber he extracts the same sparkling purple gemstone that Varian himself had once created, though now the sight of it fills him with unease. “I call this new element…”

Well, it can’t be _Cassandrium,_ that much is for sure. But for the life of him, Varian can’t predict what new name this element will be christened with.

He waits with just as much suspense as the rest of the crowd.

“...Duonium,” Past-Varian says finally, flashing a grin at Varian as he does so. “Because as a scientist, you can’t be close-minded. Sometimes, more than one opinion matters. Duality of — well, whatever. The point being, I wasn’t alone in this endeavor. I had my family beside me, and for that I’m truly grateful.”

The crowd bursts into applause, but Varian is still mystified. _Family?_ Is that how Past-Varian sees him? Varian had always expected he’d fix this timeline to the best of his abilities and then leave somehow, jumping back to the timeline where he’d kidnapped Queen Arianna and subsequently been shipped to jail after his plan was thwarted. He had never expected to outrun the consequences of his actions forever. And yet Past-Varian doesn't see him as a doppelganger or a clone — or a criminal.

_Family..._

Suddenly the thought of staying here seems tempting, too.

Before he can awkwardly thank his other self, a different and decidedly more obnoxious voice cuts through the ovation.

“Everybody at this expo make some nooooiiiiiise!”

In a ridiculous puff of bright pink smoke, Fernanda Pizazzo appears on stage, so eager to upstage the competition that she doesn’t even wait for either Varian to wheel his own invention away. Past-Varian frowns but steps away, not wishing to cause a commotion even as Varian quietly seethes beside him.

_Well, that ditzy grin won’t be on her face for much longer._

Satisfied that all eyes are now on her, Pizazzo continues her speech with exaggerated pomp and circumstance. He finds her manufactured enthusiasm distasteful, and wrinkles his nose when she once again propels candy at a simple-minded crowd. Even watching the grotesque display a second time, Varian can’t believe how much people cheer simply because a little bit of food is shoved in their face. _Childish, all of them._

Varian tunes her out entirely until she pulls the blanket off her embellished magnets with a flourish, counting down the seconds as she reaches for the lever amidst all the fake hype she’s generating. People in the crowd are gasping at her paltry magnet tricks, and it takes all of Varian’s self control not to step in front of her on stage and explain to the easily-impressed crowd why all of this hardly even counts as science.

“What does it even do…?” Past-Varian whispers, brow still furrowed skeptically.

At that moment, the table under Pizazzo’s invention catches on fire.

It’s subtle at first, something Varian only notices because he had been watching for it. But soon enough tendrils of dark smoke are rising from the machine, and the crowd begins to titter nervously, which escalates into screams. Pizazzo whirls around just in time to see the magnet crash to the stage and the flames rise up around the gaudy decorations encircling the otherwise cheap invention, snuffing out her display along with any chance of her winning the competition.

Varian enjoys a hidden smirk as St. Croix begins to blubber nonsensically with indignation, reprimanding Pizazzo for her _incompetent failures_. And yet Past-Varian still looks to him accusingly when it happens, as though he can see the triumphant expression behind the mask. Varian turns away, unable to meet the other boy’s glare even one-sidedly.

St. Croix barks at his personal guard (not Cassandra) to fetch him a bucket of water _at once,_ and after some apologetic scrambling he returns and douses the fire, Pizzazo continuing to air her complaints loudly even as she is practically dragged off the stage by St. Croix.

There’s a soft tug on Varian’s arm, and he looks down to see Past-Varian pulling him back behind the stage curtain. “Um, Futarian,” he begins with a tinge of desperation in his voice, “ _please_ don’t tell me that was you.”

“That _what_ was me?”

He shifts back and forth on the soles of his feet, clearly torn between backing off due to nerves and pressing forward with disapproval. “That you were the reason Fernanda Pizazzo’s machine malfunctioned?”

“...Okay, then I won’t tell you.”

“ _Futarian_!”

Varian sighs. “I know it looks kind of bad, but listen —” With resolve he places his hands on Past-Varian’s shoulders and makes unflinching eye contact. “You agree that no other invention at this expo even came close to yours, right?”

“Yeah, but —”

“And you agree with me that Master Doctor _Whatever-Whatever_ St. Croix is a hack.”

“W-well, from what little I’ve seen… yes.”

“Then I didn’t cheat.” To Varian’s credit, his voice hardly wobbles during the justification. “I just ensured that what happened was the fair result. Do you think if Pizazzo’s machine had won, that would have been fair?”

“N-no, but —”

“Then that’s that. Nothing more to discuss.”

Past-Varian flinches but says nothing, twiddling his thumbs as his gaze travels back to the scorch marks now present on the stage. But whether or not he’s uncomfortable with the arrangement hardly matters. He was the one who insisted they come to this event in the first place and relive Varian’s traumatic memories, all on the off chance they may alter the future. Well, he got his wish! The results of the expo have been changed.

 _If he has an issue with_ how _they were changed,_ Varian thinks moodily, _then he should have specified beforehand._

Still, he can’t shake the sensation of invisible tension between them where there had been none before.

* * *

“It still doesn’t feel right,” Past-Varian repeats for at least the fifth time on their way home, hand trailing over the ruffles of the blue winner’s ribbon pinned to his shirtfront. “Are you _sure_ this is okay? Like, really _really_ sure?”

The Elemental Remogrifier had, of course, won first prize. With Pizazzo’s embarrassing circus act out of the way, there hadn’t been a single other person who posed a viable threat; Rapunzel and her pitiful giant fan hadn’t even been spared a second glance after her presentation.

“You deserved to win,” Varian reassures him, also for the fifth time. “Can we drop it? It’s in the past now. It’s not like the competition really meant anything to begin with, other than telling Dad we won to get some extra traction with him, right?”

Past-Varian doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets the subject drop. Silence stretches between them as they return to Old Corona. Since no one is around to see them on the long trek home, Varian’s mask is perched on his head for the first time all day, finally giving him some room to breathe. Traveling to and from Corona is always time consuming, but it’s not like Varian has his own horse, and unfortunately Ruddiger is not large enough to ride between cities — at least, not without some questionable alterations.

It’s nearing dusk as they approach Old Corona, both too exhausted from the walk to sustain chatter. Once they approach the border, Varian will have to hide behind his mask and practically sprint back to his lab to avoid getting caught by any of the townspeople. It’s the riskiest aspect of this operation, but it’s late enough in the evening that they may get lucky and not run into anyone. As he reaches up to replace his disguise, Past-Varian suddenly halts, staring blankly at the horizon.

“Why did you stop? It’ll be dark soon,” Varian reminds him.

Past-Varian shifts uncomfortably. “Before we home, I — I want to see them for myself. The rocks… even if it’s just once. They’re right outside Old Corona, right? I know we avoided them on the way out, and you’re trying to protect me, but they’re still showing up... and, um, as a scientist, I just wanted to see them with my own eyes —”

“Fine,” Varian interrupts, dread curling in his gut. “Just — fine, I get it. You want to see them? We can _see_ them. That’s it. No touching. Don’t even _think_ about trying to take a sample or using any chemicals on them.”

“You sound like Dad.”

At once the air between them is frigid; Varian clenches his jaw, arms hanging leaden at his side, and the other has a nervous but stubborn purse to his lips.

“Well, sometimes Dad’s right.”

Varian leads the way a few steps ahead after that. In the last timeline he had discovered the outbreak of rocks on his own; in this one he had been trying to keep his past self from even looking at them lest he be tempted by the madness of scientific discovery once again. And yet here they are once again, side by side and glaring up at the looming jagged nightmare bursting out of an otherwise idyllic countryside.

The two Varians watch the infestation and not one another.

“Are you satisfied?” Varian sneers.

Silence, then: “They scare me, a little bit,” comes the quiet confession. “But since you’re working on a solution —”

“No, you don’t understand. Look at them — do you see a solution? There _is_ no solution. It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen them before, I won’t be able to do anything about them —” Varian’s voice shakes, and before he’s realized it he has dropped to his knees, bowing to the unstoppable threat before him. “Before you know it, they’ll be everywhere. In people’s houses, in their fields, all over Old Corona. The kids will look at them with horror, and there will be new screams every time one sprouts up through someone’s kitchen in the middle of making dinner, and Dad — Dad won’t even acknowledge —”

He hasn’t cried since that dreadful day in his own timeline, when he had helplessly banged his fists against the amber holding his father prisoner, over and over. But the dam breaks again, and Varian buries his face in his hand as he shakes. And his doppelganger, his kind past self untainted by the betrayal of anyone, leans down and curls his arm around Varian’s shoulders, the gesture speaking volumes more than words ever could. In a fairy tale the rocks would acknowledge Varian’s quiet sobs and vanish with the power of his emotions, but that’s not how life works, not unless you’re Princess Rapunzel with magic hair and magic friends and a magic life. Instead the rocks continue to loom over him as he cries, showing as little mercy as one would expect from the non-sentient threat to Old Corona’s entire livelihood.

“Hey,” Past-Varian says softly. “I’m sorry for bringing you out here today. I knew it would be hard for you to see this. Again.”

Varian, trembling, says nothing.

“Because you’d see the rocks and you’d think you hadn’t accomplished anything. That everything was still the same, even though you’d been doing extra research. But from my perspective, that couldn’t be more wrong. Because I —” Past-Varian swallows. “Having you around has been like having an older brother who shares my interests. I know it’s stupid, we’re the same person, but… we’re also _not_ the same. You have experiences I don’t, and I can tell… we don’t think the same, in the future.” He smiles nervously. “You were willing to sabotage the expo so we’d win, and while I’m still not sure I agree… I trust you. I trust that things are better this way, and I hope together we can stop whatever hurt you, and _us_ , and things will be better. Because we’re not alone, yeah?”

 _You’re a great kid. You’re smart, you’re compassionate... you’re unique._ Cassandra’s reassurance from the old timeline echoes in his memory, but Varian knows then that her words don’t apply to _him_ anymore. They apply to Past-Varian, to the version of himself who still wants to reach out and help others and who’s not permanently jaded like he is.

“If I wasn’t here,” Varian admits hollowly, “you wouldn’t have had to waste all this time with me. You would have been friends with Rapunzel, and Cassandra, and Eugene — you know that, right? Don’t you think it’s pathetic? Being friends with me?” His voice escalates with anxiety, and still the rocks are unmoving. “I’m _you_ , and in this timeline I hardly even exist!”

“No, that’s not true,” Past-Varian insists. “You’re not me, not really. We’ve had enough different experiences that we can’t really be called the same person anymore…” He gives Varian’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t put so much weight on whatever happened in your own timeline, okay?”

“Are you sure?” Varian asks timidly. He had expected to face criticism for his actions, not forgiveness.

_I can’t even remember what it feels like to be that forgiving._

Past-Varian smiles. “Of course I’m sure. Oh, hey — Futarian? Can you stand up for a second?”

With wobbly legs and the assistance from the other’s hand, Varian pulls himself up. “Yeah?”

“Notice anything different?”

He thinks. “No — oh, wait, I’m having a massive head rush. Give me a moment to breathe. If I pass out, you're gonna have to haul my body back on your own, you know. Okay, inhale, exhale... still no.”

Past-Varian laughs lightly. “Stand next to me. How about now?”

Silently Varian shakes his head. He has no idea what the other is getting at.

His doppelganger sighs melodramatically. “You’re taller than I am.”

It’s not what Varian would have guessed, but he now considers the two of them standing side-by-side a little more closely. The difference is almost imperceptible, but it’s there — probably less than an inch of discrepancy, if Varian has to guess. “I guess I am. What of it?”

“So, that’s enough proof we’re different people. I mean, maybe not _enough_ proof, but it’s a little proof?”

“Maybe.” Varian can’t lie and claim that this alone absolves him of his misgivings, but... it’s something. At the very least, he appreciates the effort being made on his behalf.

“And, um, speaking of which, I’m sorry I said you were like Dad.”

Ah, now that’s the _wrong_ thing to say. The murky cloud settles over Varian’s heart again at the reminder, clenching his chest with the intensity of an automaton’s claw. “Forget it. Just — forget it. Pretend like it never happened. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

That makes him _like Dad_ too, now doesn’t it?

“Let’s just go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing? That's the eternal question. I have no answer, though. Suffer with me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else is excited for the new episodes?

A faint rumbling sound wakes Varian from another uncomfortable slumber on the floor of his lab. 

“Ruddiger…?” 

Blearily he rises to his feet, using the support from the table to haul himself up from the nest of tarps. It’s always difficult to tell what time it is down here, but Varian assumes it's before sunrise since there’s no light trickling down through the trapdoor. Ruddiger is still nowhere to be seen, and Varian starts to worry. Normally the raccoon curls up in his makeshift bed alongside him and spends the night there (a rare diurnal member of his species, apparently), so it’s unusual that he would be missing. Varian isn't sure when exactly he started to care about the thieving wild animal like a member of the family, but in his own timeline Ruddiger had been the only living creature to stand by him when Quirin was out of the picture, so that has to count for something. 

Another rumble, this time more like a growl. 

“Hello? Rudd—” 

A dark blur flashes across his vision, and Varian yelps with pain as something heavy and vicious slams into his side. Like a tossed rag doll he skids across the floor, unable to regain control of his limbs until his head collides with the leg of his desk and stops the movement of his body, and an explosion of colors blossoms across his vision as he struggles to maintain consciousness. 

Through the dizziness he hears a snarl.

“Ruddiger?” Varian wheezes fearfully. “Is — is that you?” 

He recognizes the sound now: it’s the same kind of pained roar Ruddiger had uttered back when Varian experimented on him and unleashed the temporary monstrosity onto Corona. But why is Ruddiger like this again? Did Past-Varian mutate him this time, and for what reason if so? But there's no time to consider the _why_ in the midst of an attack, and he shrinks back under the desk as Ruddiger desperately claws at him, though mercifully his raccoon arms are too short to reach his chest. Unfortunately they _can_ reach the front legs of the table, and Varian scrambles to the side just in time to see the amputated desk crash to the floor in a sorry pile of splinters. 

“Ruddiger, stop — it’s _me_ , Varian,” he begs, before another thought hits him. Surely Ruddiger can tell the difference between him and his past self. Perhaps Ruddiger’s loyalty lies with his doppelganger. Still, why would he be going after Varian in the first place? Surely Past-Varian isn't  _trying_ to get rid of him...? 

Another snarl jolts Varian from his thoughts as a shelf of beakers crashes to the floor behind him, the shattered glass raining down upon him. Varian rolls, but clumsily, and stray pieces of the glass bite into the palm of his hand as he pushes himself out of the way. Reconsidering the decision to take his gloves off while he sleeps, he reflexively clenches his fingers in pain, the warm blood from the lacerations smearing across his palm. He knows if he happens to glance down and seethe blood he’ll lose consciousness, which is not the ideal physical response when one is being attacked by a feral wild animal. Clenching his hand shut and gritting his teeth, Varian rises shakily and sprints towards the trapdoor ladder with as much intensity as he can manage as Ruddiger charges him. Luckily the raccoon’s momentum propels him beyond Varian, and Ruddiger slams against the wall in a flurry of scrabbling claws and frustrated snarls as Varian hoists himself up on the ladder with his uninjured hand and hooks his wrist around the next rung to hoist his body out of harm's way. Varian’s heart is hammering; he knows that if Ruddiger shakes off his impact and claws at the ladder, he’ll be pulled down with minimal resistance and shredded. It’s his unathletic alchemist body against the clock, and it’s not looking good.

With each agonizing second that passes, Varian expects his luck to run out. But Ruddiger’s next attack never comes, and Varian chances a quick glance below him to discover that the raccoon’s paw is lodged in the crumbling wall from the force of his collision. Anything that gives him more time to avoid certain death is a relief in Varian’s book, and with renewed hope he manages to scale the rest of the ladder and push against the trapdoor from underneath. Once he climbs up and out of the hole, Ruddiger will be trapped in the lab, and —

The trapdoor doesn’t budge.

Why is it locked? Did somebody — from the outside — ? Frantically he rattles the door, to no avail. “Hello? Are you trying to kill me? Who’s up there? _Let me out!_ ” Surely no one will answer his pathetic calls. If someone had intended to trap and kill him, they would stay far away from the scene of the crime until the deed was done. The inevitability of his death creeps up upon him once again as the blood clenched between his fingers begins to ooze through the gaps and trickle down his wrist, and Varian considers letting go and giving up, because surely dying quickly by choice at Ruddiger's claws would be preferable than living with fear until he’s suddenly torn apart —

And then, there _is_ a response.

“Why would I let you out, Varian?” comes the voice from the other side, and it’s _his_ voice. “You already messed up your life once. I refuse to let you mess up mine.”

So it _had_ been his past self after all, waiting for just the right chance to strike and eliminate him. Of course betrayal had been inevitable — how had Varian not predicted it? He's a master of betrayals, after all. Betraying _himself_ is just the logical progression after he'd stabbed Rapunzel in the back, and Eugene, and Cassandra —

“Please, I’m doing my best,” Varian yells, and he hates how his voice audibly cracks as he unsuccessfully tries to swallow a sob. “I thought you said we were family. Please, just give me one more chance — !”

“You already used up all your chances, Varian.” 

Finally free, Ruddiger leaps towards him. The ladder swings wildly as Varian's time to escape expires, and his vision warps as something sharp tears through his torso. There’s red splattered everywhere, all over the floor and the walls and himself, and it’s fluorescent, all he can see is red, the inside of the automaton, glowing across his vision, red, red, _red_ — 

* * *

Varian’s eyes fly open in a panic.

The pulse of his heartbeat is in his throat, and he takes a shuddering breath before sitting up, Ruddiger’s fur brushing against his neck from his perch on Varian’s shoulder. Everything in the lab is intact, and it takes only a few disoriented seconds for Varian to calm down and survey the reality. Ruddiger watches him with curiously twitching ears all the while. 

“Realistic dream,” he mutters mostly to himself, voice gravelly with sleep. And thank the heavens it _was_ a dream, because Past-Varian turning on him… no, it's not a thought worth entertaining. Why would he ever turn on Varian? Surely if anyone were to trust Varian unconditionally, it would be another version of himself. If he stops putting faith in Past-Varian, he’d have to stop believing in himself, too. And because there's no one else left to trust beyond himself, that outcome is absolutely unthinkable.

_It was just a dream..._

That knowledge is marginally comforting. The rumbling, however, hasn't stopped. 

Throwing his messy nest of blankets every which way, Varian scrambles to his feet, wincing as Ruddiger digs his claws into his shoulder to avoid being flung across the room. In the feverish haze of his dream he had attributed the sound to the raccoon, but clearly the real source of the noise is something else entirely. Is Old Corona experiencing a sudden earthquake? A tornado? A — 

_Oh, no._

It's then that he sees exactly what he had been dreading. From the center of the floor rise the rocks, right on cue and yet somehow still unexpected. Varian hadn’t been in his lab when they had sprouted before, and the dread of watching them gradually push up through the ground and into his space, into his _life_ , like a virus — it’s worse than the false death he had just experienced in his dreams. Because this is  _real_ , and the beginning of the end.

There’s a rattling noise from the trapdoor. Varian jumps, halting his subconscious retreat from the rocks. Between the reality he faces and the disoriented dream that still feels tangibly real, it doesn’t occur to him to hide on the off chance the visitor is his father, and he remains dangerously rooted to the spot.

(It’s not Quirin, of course, because why would he ever come down here and take an interest in his son’s hobbies except to shut them down?)

“I heard noise,” Past-Varian wheezes as he scrambles down the ladder, doubling over to catch his breath. “Is everything — _oh_.” Understandably, his words and movement cease as his eyes land on the rocks that have clawed their way out of the earth and split the lab in two with their looming presence. “Er, I was gonna ask if everything was okay, but…”

“Not very okay,” Varian murmurs in agreement. “I wasn’t here when they showed up last time. They, uh, startled me.”

Past-Varian’s expression is difficult to read, a strange mixture of disappointment and determination. “Well, if we look at it a different way, maybe this is actually a good thing? Because the rocks are in our lab now, it’ll be easier to study them, since they're right at our fingertips. We can maybe run some tests or —”

“Don’t!” Varian hadn’t meant to shout, and Past-Varian flinches. “I mean — don’t touch those things. Running tests isn’t a good idea. Keep all potentially volatile substances away from them, okay? Just — keep the research to the books. I know it's tempting to want to mess around with them, but it’s less dangerous this way.”

“They’re just rocks,” the other protests. “How dangerous can they be?”

“Very.”

The two face each other stubbornly, both waiting for the other to crack, but Varian has had more practice putting his foot down, and he watches his doppelganger’s scowl morph into resignation. “Fine, if you say so. But I still don’t understand why you can’t just tell me what happened in your own timeline.”

“I feel like if I say it out loud, it’ll just happen again,” Varian mutters. There’s no scientific basis for this feeling, which makes it utterly worthless. But he’s going to stick by it, because if he can’t trust his gut, he may as well not even bother trying to change the future at all. "That, and you shouldn't even know what happens in other timelines. You know, causing paradoxes. Or whatever."

Past-Varian rolls his eyes. “Fair point. Counterpoint: ever worry that you keeping vital information from me will cause me to inadvertently make the same mistakes as before, therefore repeating exactly the results you don’t want?”

“I've thought about it, yeah. And the solution is to let me be vague and listen to what I say without question. Best of both worlds.”

“Not for me!” With a grumpy sigh, Past-Varian flops into his chair, and Ruddiger hops off Varian’s shoulder to join his doppelganger on the desk. “I never know what’s going on with you. I don’t even know what you’ve changed here so far, and I'm also not fully sure what we're even looking for in all those books we've been reading. But whatever, I suppose my _insatiable scientific curiosity_ is just going to have to remain unsated. _Forever_. No big deal.”

Varian raises an eyebrow. “Trying to guilt me into cracking, huh?”

“Absolutely not. Just airing my grievances, Futarian. No guilting whatsoever.”

“Really? Because that’s the kind of tactic _I’d_ use if I was trying to guilt someone.”

“Hmm, guess we’ll never know.” Past-Varian spins in his chair ungracefully, one hand shooting out to steady himself against the desk as he almost keels over. “Since you're me and all, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and leave you be. _For now._  So what's next then, interdimensional man of mystery? What sort of questionably-successful adventure are you going to leave me out of this time?”

The phrasing of the question riles him, but Varian refuses to take the bait and holds his temper in check. “I’ll talk to Dad, I guess. Since around this time, last time…” _It’s getting close to everything going wrong… again._ “...Well, once the rocks started popping up everywhere, he and I went to Corona to appeal for help in front of the king.”

“And?”

“And we didn’t get help,” Varian says, choosing his words carefully. “Since we didn't... approach things the right way. So this time, I’d like to make sure that we do.”

To be more precise, his father had lied to the king, completely shattering Varian’s trust in him and sending him on a desperate downward spiral of desire to solve the problem of the rocks on his own. That moment had opened Varian’s eyes to the untrustworthiness of, well, _everyone._ But if he can change _that_ future without his past self knowing, then he can preserve the other’s emotional innocence. It’s probably too late for Varian to ever regain that bright-eyed unconditional belief in others, but that doesn’t mean Past-Varian has to experience the same betrayal. Without that bitterness, Past-Varian won’t go after the rocks with increased fervor, which in turn will lead to his safety and a less-damaged relationship with Quirin.

Ideally.

“Hmm.” Past-Varian taps his foot against the floor. “And you’re really sure there’s nothing I can do? Last time I went to Corona, you were my sidekick, so maybe this time I can come in disguise instead, and —”

“Er, I appreciate the offer, but just stay here and stay safe,” Varian interrupts as gently as possible, even managing a weak smile. “That'll be easiest for both of us. I’ll get us help this time. Just don’t touch the rocks, okay?”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say,” Past-Varian says curtly with a wave of his hand. “Someone's gotta keep Ruddiger company, right?”

It doesn’t feel resolved, and the other radiates dissatisfaction, but Varian doesn’t have the luxury of considering those feelings right now. Time is of the essence; he has to catch his father before he leaves for Corona and ask him to come along. This time, Varian refuses to let him get away with telling King Frederic anything but the truth.

Still, he can't help but feel vaguely unsettled as he scales the ladder to the trapdoor, the burn of Past-Varian's judgmental gaze fixed upon him prickling his skin.

* * *

When Varian steps outside, squinting as the now-unfamiliar sunlight bombards his vision, there’s a crowd of people amassed around the rocks, murmuring to one another as an uneasy gloom settles amidst them. Quirin is talking to another adult from the village, and though he’s too far away to be heard, Varian can only assume that his father is reassuring the man (falsely) that everything will be okay and that he has the problem under control. 

Both men fall silent when Varian approaches them, and the other man takes an almost imperceptible step back, placing distance between himself and the young alchemist with the dangerous reputation. Varian tries not to grimace. He knows he's never been the most popular person in Old Corona, what with the periodic explosions and destruction, but witnessing the distrust of his village firsthand always leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Those rocks are really everywhere now,” Varian says, choosing to ignore the fearful cynic and instead addressing Quirin, whose head is tilted in silent query at his son's sudden arrival. “There were some in my lab when I woke up this morning, too. It’s been getting harder to avoid them lately… everything's just getting worse and worse.” 

“You didn’t touch them, did you?” Quirin responds quickly, alarm rising. 

Varian shakes his head dutifully. “No, Dad, of course not. I wanted to talk to you first. Do you have a plan of attack? You know, for, uh… getting rid of them?” 

 _I know you don’t._  

Nevertheless, Quirin nods. “Of course. In fact, I was planning to travel to see the king this afternoon about this very matter.” 

“Can I come with you?” Varian asks quickly. “I just — it’s so hard to focus on anything with all of that in my lab right now,” he adds a bit more demurely. “And I haven’t gone on any exciting road trips with you lately. Please, Dad?” The more he acts out his desperation, the more real it becomes; his stomach is doing acrobatics at the thought of spending that kind of time with his father, especially since he is painfully aware of Quirin’s inevitable dishonesty later in court — dishonesty that he, Varian, will singlehandedly have to shut down with the entire kingdom's eyes upon him.

But Quirin just chuckles and nods. “All right, that’s fine. I’ve just about packed the caravan. Is there anything you need to grab first from your, er, _room?_ ” It’s painfully clear what word he’s avoiding, as though not saying it will somehow dissipate Varian’s interest in the sciences. “Nothing dangerous of course. ...You’re not bringing that raccoon along, are you?”

“No, he's staying here. There's nothing I need to bring along, so whenever you want to go, I’m ready as —” A cough. "I mean, I'm ready."

Quirin eyes him with an arched eyebrow but doesn't question the stammer. "I'd like to deal with this as soon as possible so we don't have to travel back in the dark. If you're ready, let's head out."

Though Varian had proposed the road trip, once he and Quirin are situated in the caravan it's difficult for them to even make eye contact with one another. It had been so long since they had "bonded" that there's nothing for them to talk about anymore, made worse by Varian's painful knowledge that he doesn't even belong here with this version of his father. At some point the soft rocking of the structure and the rhythm of the horse's steady steps lulls his exhausted body into something akin to a nap, but his mind swirls with so many negative thoughts that he doesn't even notice he's sleeping until the abrupt termination of movement jerks him back awake.

"We're here, Varian," his father says softly.

It's around midday when they arrive at the gates of Corona's castle, and the two are ushered inside by the Royal Guard. There’s a line of people waiting to speak to King Frederic before them, and Varian is instantly antsy stepping foot inside the building. The last time he had set foot in these halls had been to commit treason with Rapunzel before backstabbing her. (The time before that, the guards had thrown him out into a deadly snowstorm while Rapunzel stood by and watched.) It’s not a place full of particularly warm memories for him, and knowing what he may have to do shortly to expose his father’s lies is not helping assuage his dread.

“You look a little pale,” Quirin says after an impossible lull. “Are you feeling all right, Varian?”

“I’m fine,” Varian mutters, pointedly watching the queue in front of them and not his father. Looking at Quirin only reminds him of amber and failure, and it’s also not _his_ Quirin, not really. Past-Varian might consider the two of them family, but Varian knows that can never truly be the case. It’s not like they can share this version of Quirin, after all.

 _He still_ feels _like Dad, though._

Quirin sighs. “I know you’re worried about the rocks, and you want to do something to help, but it’s not your problem to worry about. You shouldn’t feel like you have to take the burden on by yourself. You… _are_ just a child, you know.”

Varian bristles. “Children can solve problems, and adults can be useless. What’s the point?”

“It’s not about usefulness, it’s about experience,” Quirin replies, tired. “I don’t want to argue with you about this, Varian. Just — please, none of that alchemy business in front of the royal court today.” 

 _Yeah, yeah, I get it. You want me to stay out of your way so you can lie freely to the king’s face, just like before._ Refusing to grace the hypocrisy with a response, Varian scowls and turns away. 

“Varian, are you listening to me?” 

“I heard you. No alchemy.” Telling the king the truth doesn’t require dramatic explosions or chemical fires. This time he’ll get what he wants without resorting to property damage and mood elixirs.

_And if the Corona royal family still can’t help us…?_

_Well_ , Varian muses grimly, _then we’ll just be royally screwed._

Because he is next in line to enter the throne room, Quirin falls silent without a retort. From inside Varian can hear snippets of the voice of the person who had entered before them, complaining about some sort of issue pertaining to sheep. How terrible for them that rowdy farm animals are the extent of their problems! Varian can’t help but roll his eyes at the audacity of Corona’s citizens to complain about such trite dilemmas when a village that by all means should be of equal importance is being ripped to shreds right outside their borders. But hey, maybe Varian just can’t understand the true agony of rampaging sheep! What would he know about suffering? He's just a  _child._

A hand alights on his shoulder amidst his cynical thoughts, and Varian looks up to see Quirin watching him with a determined expression that would have been comforting if Varian didn’t already know it would lead to blatant lies. “Son, wait here while I speak to the king.”

“Why can’t I come with you?” Varian challenges, though he knows the answer. “Wouldn’t two witnesses be more convincing than one?”

Predictably, Quirin looks uncomfortable. “Trust me when I say I can handle this, Varian. King Frederic and I are on... _understanding_ terms. Of course your, er, testimonials are valuable, but believe me when I say a second opinion would complicate things. Old Corona will be fine.” He looks Varian in the eye intensely. “You trust that I can handle this situation, yes?”

 _No, I don't._ Yet against his better judgment, Varian finds himself cowering. “Yeah,” he mumbles, breaking eye contact to stare at the lavishly-carpeted floor. The patterned suns stare back at him with judgmental eyes as father disappears into the throne room, leaving Varian disgusted at himself for his sudden lack of fortitude. An unpleasant chill creeps across his body, and his clammy fingers twitch uncomfortably under his gloves. “If I expose Dad,” Varian mutters to himself, “then we'll have a chance of getting help from Corona to get rid of the rocks. But then my relationship with him...” He trails off, fully aware of the unwitting burden he would be forcing Past-Varian to carry.

_It doesn’t matter what comes of this. I can’t let him get away with lying again…!_

He presses his ear against the door, forcing himself to not back down and to listen to the horrible conversation a second time — the conversation that had originally shattered his trust in his father.

 _Quirin, my old friend. What brings you from Old Corona village?_  

 _Your Majesty, Old Corona is facing quite the dilemma._  

 _Oh?_  

Maybe he won’t lie this time, Varian prays desperately. Everything will be okay and he won't have to step in at all, because this is a different timeline, and — 

 _Ah, yes. It would appear this year’s harvest has proven quite bountiful, so much so that I humbly request more land to accommodate such bounty._  

Of course nothing would be different. Nothing ever is. 

He knew this had been coming. He _knew_ it, and yet the betrayal still feels the same. 

Is this his destiny, then? Getting lied to by the people cares about, over and over? 

Perhaps it’s time to give up entirely. 

 _Hmm… Quirin, I am pleased to hear how well Old Corona is fairing, and even more pleased to grant your request._  

No, he won’t give up — he _can’t!_ More land isn’t going to do anything now that the dam of black rocks has burst and Old Corona is flooded with them. Everything he's ever known will be eaten alive by those mineral fangs, chewed up and spit out until there’s nothing of his home left. This is his last chance to make a difference.

In one wild motion, Varian yanks open the door and leaps inside. 

“He’s lying — Old Corona is in trouble!” 

It doesn’t matter that Varian has seen these events once before. Standing up to the king is terrifying — no, standing up to his _father_ in front of the king is terrifying. All eyes are on him now, the guards poised and spears at the ready to remove him from the premises if he causes trouble. King Frederic’s eyes bug out with disbelief, and Quirin — well, who knows what he looks like; Varian refuses to acknowledge him lest he lose his nerve.

“We’ve lost everything. Crops, water, places to live — soon enough we’ll all be out of our homes. People are scared, children are crying. Everything’s going to hell!”

 _“Varian,”_ Quirin exclaims, sheer horror apparent through tone alone.

Still Varian presses on without so much as a glance in his father’s direction. “We _need_ Corona’s help,” he insists, taking another step forward as his fists clench at his sides. “More land isn’t going to solve the problem. The rocks will destroy that too, and then —” 

“Varian!”

He knows he’s right, yet still his father’s voice makes him falter. That conditioned shame, that desire to squeeze approval out of Quirin at any cost, is at odds with the flames of injustice within him, threatening to consume his body and burn his future to ashes. “Please, King Frederic, I know my intrusion is impertinent of me, and against proper protocol, but with all due respect, please don’t —”

“While I understand your concern," Frederic interrupts levelly, "If your father believes he knows what’s right for Old Corona, then all I can do is trust him.”

_Huh?_

“T-trust him?” Varian stutters, not believing what he’s hearing. “ _Him?_ Did you — did you hear what I said? My father is ly—” 

“Varian.” This time Quirin’s voice is icy, enough to chill the rage within Varian and freeze him in his tracks. “Children do not belong in court.” 

He’s heard the words once before. They shouldn't affect him.

Ever since he had first arrived in this timeline, Varian had been teetering on the edge of hopelessness. Each time he has peered over the edge and stared at the abyss, the gentle hand from his past self has tugged him back, reminding him of the self-assured and curious nature he'd once had and the importance of not losing it a second time. The happiness and free spirit of his past is something worth protecting.

But Past-Varian isn’t here now, and Quirin’s condescension sends him into a frenzy.

“People who don’t tell the _truth_ don’t belong in court!” Varian shouts back, and all at once there are strong hands gripping both his arms, as the Royal Guard restrains him from jumping the throne. Right, because he’s _so_ dangerous! What a vicious, _truthful_ child he is! What are they going to do, send him to jail early this time? “So that’s it, huh? You’re going to silence me?” Clawing at the air gets him nowhere; the guards hardly budge and instead begin steering him unflinchingly towards the door.

_This isn’t working. We won’t get any assistance from the royal family, and Old Corona will — !_

Old Corona will _die._

“Help us!” Varian screams, kicking futilely as the guards drag him away from the throne. “Why do you only care about your own family? What about _my_ family?! What about the people outside your borders? You think because you can’t see us, we don’t exist? I’ve lived in Old Corona all my life! I don’t want to have to relocate! Listen to —” 

_Slam._

“— me!”

The door to the throne room groans shut after Varian is unceremoniously tossed out like yesterday’s trash. Inside he can still hear the king and his father conversing in hushed tones, but the wall mutes their words. Most likely Quirin is apologizing for his son’s unruly behavior before continuing to push the issue of their dying village under the rug.

Why hadn't the king listened to him? Are he and Quirin conspiring somehow — is that what Quirin's assurance that he and the king are on _understanding terms_ had truly meant? Maybe Quirin actually _wants_ to see Old Corona destroyed. It's a crazy thought, but if nothing else makes sense, then it's just as plausible as any other theory.

Or perhaps Varian had lost the moment he mentioned the rocks themselves. It hadn't escaped him how King Frederic's brow furrowed and eyes darkened when Varian uttered the word; Rapunzel, silent by the king's side, had also looked away for a beat, both from Varian and her father. If the topic itself is taboo, then bringing it up had been a fatal mistake. His pleas had been completely and utterly denied.

Varian stands in a trance. He wants to cry, but can’t. He wants to scream, but his throat closes. All his anger, his rage, his desperation — it had been snuffed out in an instant. And not a single thought forms amidst the blankness. He looks at his hands. His own body feels miles away. Maybe that’s where all his thoughts have gone, too. And his happiness.

Is this what drowning feels like? No, at least if he were drowning he’d be gasping for breath in a desperate last ditch effort to live.

This is what _truly giving up_ feels like. 

“Varian?” 

It’s not the voice he had expected to hear. Then again, it always comes back to this, doesn’t it?

The princess ducks into the hall, quickly closing the door to the throne room behind her. Her fingers lace together nervously and she's shuffling her feet, but her concern is as selfless and genuine as ever. And as usual, Varian finds the concern difficult to accept. 

“...Rapunzel.” 

“That was, um, quite the scene you made in there,” Rapunzel says with a nervous titter of laughter. 

Varian sniffs but says nothing. He refuses to accept comfort from _her_ of all people. 

“Is Old Corona really as bad as you said?” she asks. 

Despite everything, Varian can still find the energy within himself to roll his eyes. "No, I just get a kick out of making a fool of myself in public, Rapunzel. Especially in royal court, actually. Didn't you know being harassed by guards is my favorite pastime? Well, second to alchemy, but —"

"O-okay, I get it," Rapunzel mumbles. "Of course you weren't lying. I could tell how desperate you were for help... it was a callous question. I'm sorry..."

Varian stays silent.

“By the way, um, this isn’t really the right time, I know — I mean, this is the very very  _wrong_ time, but before I forget — I’m sorry for not congratulating you at the Exposition of Sciences. You kinda bolted as soon as the judging was over, but I really meant to —” 

“I don’t care, Rapunzel,” Varian says, and she falls silent. “That competition was nothing. What you _should_ be apologizing for is the rocks. It’s your fault they’re even here, spreading with no end in sight.”

 “Varian!” Rapunzel exclaims, aghast. “Keep your voice down! How — how did you even know that? Wait — are you the one who told Eugene? I was wondering how he suddenly knew about that!” 

Right, Eugene. Varian had admittedly forgotten about his own meddling in that department. “I’ve been doing my research, _Princess,_ ” he retorts. “For that matter, why don't you tell the rocks to go away? I dunno, sing to them, or paint one of your magical friendship murals on them. Just do something — anything!”

“I don’t know how to make them go away,” Rapunzel says quietly. “I don’t even know what they _are_. I’m sorry, I —” 

“This would never have happened if you hadn’t come back to Corona,” Varian spits with unrestrained vitriol. “I wish you were still in that tower.” 

Rapunzel’s eyes go blank, and she shrinks back, clutching her hands to her chest. “I’m sorry, Varian,” she says again. “I really don’t know what to do…”

“Me neither.”

They stand so close but so far apart, Varian's mind overflowing with toxic and intrusive thoughts that would bring Rapunzel to tears if he uttered them. She looks so pathetic now, so small, and Varian can easily picture her in the tower to which his words had condemned her.

Of course Rapunzel wouldn't know what to do when she's barely lived her own life.

“I’m sorry too, Princess,” Varian says finally, detached from his own words. This isn't even the Rapunzel to which he should be apologizing, and he knows it. “I had no right to say something like that to you. I just…” He bites his lip. “What good are kings and queens and magic princesses if they can’t help Corona? _All_ of Corona. Not just your parts.” 

She flinches, but doesn’t answer. 

“Well, I suppose you can't change the entire system,” he admits. “And it's not like you asked for that flower to be in you. I just wish there was something you could do… or something I could do.”

Her eyes brighten. "Ah — speaking of the flower, you tested my hair, remember? All those painful, er... _exciting_ tests. Those results, um — did you ever get a chance to look at them, or...?"

“I never interpreted the results,” Varian interrupts. “I shoved the papers aside somewhere, because I didn’t want to help you.” It’s strange how easily the truth spills out, now that there’s nothing more he can do to save his home. “Looking back, I probably should have analyzed them, if only to get more data. But my bitterness towards you stopped me... Just another way in which I’m an idiot, apparently.”

She shakes her head slowly. “No, in your shoes, knowing I was to blame for the rocks… I wouldn’t have wanted to help me, either.” Ever the optimist, Rapunzel flashes him a nervous smile. “Don’t worry about the tests. I just appreciate you telling me the truth, Varian. Thank you. ...Though I do wish you had talked to me before telling Eugene. You _are_ the one who told him, right? He gave me quite the earful after we left your house, which we worked out of course, but I was wondering where he had gotten all those ideas from.”

This time, Varian is the one who says nothing.

“But if you didn’t analyze my hair, how did you know I was connected to the rocks?”

 _Well, actually, I come from an alternate future in which I manipulated you, drugged your entire kingdom, tried to murder your family, and may as well have murdered my own father. I’m supposed to be rotting in Corona’s prison right now with my trash-eating raccoon who’s the only living creature who cares about me, and yet I’m inexplicably here and messing up this timeline instead._ Yeah, that probably won’t go over so well. Instead Varian simply says, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Rapunzel puffs out her cheeks. “Try me. I’m the one with seventy feet of magic hair, remember? It takes a lot to surprise me.”

She’s as warm and sincere as Varian remembers, and he hesitates. In his future he had caused Rapunzel so much grief and betrayal despite her willingness to trust him when no one else did. Even when faced with possible death she had allowed him to use her hair in his attempt to drill his father free from the amber. Talking to her again in this timeline brings Varian to the uncomfortable realization that the two of them are very similar, both victims to their tight-lipped, overprotective fathers. Rapunzel’s mistakes are a product of her own ignorance, just as Varian’s had been. And it hadn’t been his fault, nor her fault, as much as he had wanted to make Rapunzel the scapegoat for his own feelings of shame.

Varian _could_ tell her, he considers. He could tell her what he had done, and what he’s fighting for, and she probably wouldn’t even judge him too harshly, because Rapunzel always tries to see the good in people. (Not like him.) Maybe if he tells her the truth now, he can onvince her to go with him before everything falls apart, before the storm hits and the final nail is driven into Corona’s coffin. Even though convincing King Frederic had not been fruitful, all hope is not lost if he can get Rapunzel to act faster in this timeline. This time, she even seems to be taking his plight seriously.

For a moment, he softens.

“If I tell you,” Varian begins, “I want you to make me a promise.” _One you hopefully won't break this time._ “If I tell you everything, I want you to visit Old Corona. Just — just to see for yourself how bad things are. That’s all. It doesn't have to be today, but soon. Just promise… promise to come back.”

Rapunzel blinks, then shakes her head. “Varian, you don’t need to exchange information to ask me for something like that. If you’re in that much trouble, I want to help you regardless.”

“I _want_ the exchange,” Varian insists. He won’t back down, not again. "I need it to be certain."

Rapunzel sighs. “All right, Varian. If it makes you feel better, then yes, it’s a deal. I promise.”

“Our dads are in there, so let’s talk about this elsewh—”

“Varian.”

Varian hadn't noticed the door to the throne room reopening, and his blood runs cold as he swivels to face his father, and Quirin looks more disappointed than Varian has ever seen him. Varian takes an accidental step back, glancing desperately between his father and Rapunzel. “Dad, I — Rapunzel and I were — _Princess_ Rapunzel and I —”

“We’re going home, Varian.”

Quirin steps forward. Varian steps back. “Please, Dad, just give me five minutes — we only were talking about —”

“Five minutes?” Quirin echoes. “So that you may once again humiliate me in front of the entire kingdom? That's plenty of time for you to get into trouble again. I never would have brought you here if I had known this would happen. We’re going home.”

Another step back. “Three minutes — two minutes — Dad, _please_. It's important — please listen to me!”

“After what you just did?”

“I told the truth!” Varian snaps back. “That’s what you want to punish me for? The truth? You can do whatever you want because I’m the kid and you’re the parent, even though you’re the one who’s the liar! So I get punished for honesty and punished for lying. There’s no winning, is there, Dad? You see this, Rapunzel?” His voice escalates to a near scream. “You see what not being royalty gets you? Nothing! Nobody will ever believe me. You’re all just afraid of the truth!”

Quirin has closed the gap between them, grabbing Varian by the collar and dragging him forcefully away from the princess. “Home. _Now._ ” Unflinching, he turns to Rapunzel. “I’m sorry, Princess. This isn’t your problem to deal with.”

The words throw Varian into further rage, and he struggles helplessly, kicking and punching with limbs far weaker than those of his father. They’re about to round the corner when Quirin is suddenly forced to a halt by an opposing pull.

Varian looks down.

There’s a lock of golden hair around his ankle.

“Princess Rapunzel,” Quirin says softly, “with all due respect —”

Stubbornly Rapunzel tugs back on her makeshift lasso. “Let me talk to Varian. Just for a little while. It’s a —” Her cheeks flush, but she presses on nonetheless. “Er, a royal order, Quirin.  _Sir._ ”

“Forget it, Rapunzel,” Varian says quickly, and she falls quiet. “There’s nothing more to say.” His father’s irrationality had angered him to the point of frenzy, but Rapunzel’s support does exactly the opposite; all at once he has no energy to deal with this, with her or the past or future. He’ll go home, face his father’s punishment, and face his past self’s frustration upon knowing both their lives are ruined. At some point once he figures out how time travel works, he’ll slink off back to his own unsalvageable timeline with his tail between his legs, as much of a failure as ever.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

“But our agreeme—”

“Forget it!”

“Don’t talk to the princess that way,” Quirin warns, and Varian falls silent. “You’ve done enough to make a scene around here for one day.”

Slowly Rapunzel releases Varian. "Don't give up, Varian. We'll still talk later. Okay?"

He doesn't respond, because he doesn't hear her.

Quirin may be talking too, but he doesn't hear that either.

_I shouldn't even be here._

Varian and his father don't talk on the way back from Corona, but this time it's for an entirely different reason.

* * *

Varian is still in a trance when the caravan returns to Old Corona at dusk. Quirin gets out first, and he returns to the house without a word. For what seems like eternity Varian remains huddled up, watching the sky blur from yellow to orange to gray as the sun sets. Getting his limbs to move is a chore. Thinking is impossible. He wants to run away more than anything, but somehow he manages to eventually crawl out of the caravan and stagger to his lab without much conscious thought.

Past-Varian is asleep on the desk when he enters, one arm hanging off the table while the other is draped around an open book. Ruddiger is sleeping beside him with his fluffy head rested against the makeshift pillow of Past-Varian’s arm, and his ears perk up when he hears Varian descend from the trapdoor. The slight movement in turn alerts Past-Varian to his presence, and Varian watches his eyes blink open sleepily and his uncoordinated arms scrambling sluggishly to push himself into an upright position. 

Every part of Varian’s body is trembling. 

“Mmhhmph…” A groggy whine emits from Past-Varian’s throat, and beside him Ruddiger chitters with concern. “Did it go okay? Did you talk to the king? Did Dad — oh, _Futarian!_ Are you okay?!” If he hadn’t been awake before, he certainly is now. “What happened? Oh my gosh, are you hurt? Why are you shaking like that? Do you need to sit down? Did —” 

Varian raises his hand. The other falls silent. “I’m fine,” he says softly, which is as loud as he can manage. “I’m not hurt, I’m just — tired. I’m tired.” Collapsing into the chair across from Past-Varian at the desk, Varian heaves a sigh. He’s not sure if he wants to scream or cry or pull out his hair or laugh or sleep — or do all of those things in that order — but he can feel that bit of hope slipping through his fingers like sand through an hourglass, and either way his time has run out. 

“You’re not fine,” Past-Varian retorts. 

“I messed up,” Varian says before he can be lectured yet again. “Okay? I don’t know what you want me to say. I messed up. I made things worse. The rocks are coming no matter what happens. I yelled at Dad. I berated Rapunzel. I harassed the king. I ruined your reputation, and the rocks are still going to shred Old Corona and kill us all. Is that what you want to hear? That I’m a failure just like last time? That I came back in time just to screw up your life too? Karma’s way of reminding me that I’m garbage and I’ll never be of any use to society?” Fingernails clench and unclench into the skin of his palms as he speaks, a mechanical and painful movement that he deserves, over and over and _over_ , and with each repetition he hopes to shred his skin and destroy his hands, if only to prevent them from concocting any more mistakes. 

He’s not sure when it happened, but Ruddiger is cowering under the table. 

Past-Varian is staring past him blankly, and he stands, limbs hanging limply at his side like an automaton powered off. “You yelled at Dad?” 

Varian says nothing, breathing heavily. 

“I’m tired of being kept in the dark,” Past-Varian says, but there’s no bite to his voice, no anger and no energy at all. “First Dad, and now you — nobody ever tells me anything. I don’t understand. Why can’t I know what happened?” 

“You’ll resent me,” Varian says, surprised when the truth comes out so easily. 

“Why would I resent myself?” Past-Varian snaps back. “We’re the same —” 

“Because _I've_ always resented me!” Varian yells. “You know you feel useless, and me being here is just double useless! Doesn’t it make you feel awful knowing that you’re useless in every incarnation? Haven’t you known since the beginning that neither of us can do anything right?” 

Past-Varian looks angrier than Varian has ever seen him. “I don’t know what happened to you to make you feel like this, but if you came back in time just to give up and berate me, then you should have just stayed where you were in your own timeline!”

"I don’t even know how I got here, and I never wanted to help in the first place!" 

The silence that stretches between them then is unfathomable. Once or twice Past-Varian opens his mouth as though he's going to speak, but says nothing. Ruddiger is nowhere to be seen, prudently taking his leave.

"That's not —" Varian swallows thickly. "I did want to help, I still  _do,_ I just —"

"You being here was an accident, huh?"

Varian stares at the floor.

"Get some rest," Past-Varian says without any harshness, and Varian glances up with confusion. But his past self is already scaling the ladder by the time Varian thinks to try to stop him, and the door slams before he can utter the first word.

After rising feebly from the desk, Varian practically collapses into a heap on his makeshift bed, curling the blankets around him as though their shell can block out memories of everything that had gone wrong. What is there even left to try anymore? The rocks will rise up to devour Old Corona again no matter what they do, that much is certain. No amount of altering the future can change that fact. Varian could experience one or one thousand different versions of his own history, and he'd be completely powerless in all of them. The rocks will get the best of him, and his village will die. Moreover, his father will never be proud of him. 

Stopping the rocks had always been a futile endeavor, then. Even so, Varian doesn't want to believe that he had been sent back in time simply to be punished by karma. There _has_ to be something he can do to alter this timeline for the better, even on a small scale. Even if Old Corona is destroyed.

His gaze trails back to the trapdoor.

Yes — there _is_ still one aspect Varian can change for sure. 

He can make sure Past-Varian doesn’t turn into a failure like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I keep seeing posts about the Tangled discord server but I'm far too intimidated by big group chats to want to join it... especially with this mess of a fic to my name. Instead I'll just lurk, drop my angst, and leave. I guess.~~


	5. Chapter 5

It’s cold when Varian wakes — unusually so even for underground — and he shivers weakly, pulling the mass of blankets closer to his chest. There’s a faint sound almost like whistling in the distance, and Varian gradually realizes that what he’s hearing is the muted howling of the wind. Even below ground the rage of the horrible snowstorm is very much audible. In his own timeline he had foolishly braved the same blizzard to plead for Rapunzel's help, but this time he refuses to step foot outdoors, especially since going to Corona now would be as pointless as everything else he’s tried.

Every so often the sound of footsteps swells and fades from nearby as Past-Varian moves through the lab. Varian had known since his outburst that it would be impossible for the two of them to avoid each other because they share the same space, but he still dreads getting out of bed and facing the other after everything he’d said and the venom with which he'd said it. The way Varian had handled himself yesterday had been inarguably bad in every regard, from his loss of composure in front of the king to the tension he’d created between himself and his father. But his greatest source of shame is the way he had ripped into his younger self, who had done nothing to deserve such treatment.

_Neither of us can do anything right._

_I never wanted to help in the first place._

If Varian can just get up off the floor and apologize, then they can talk it out, go back to being friends and assistants and maybe even brothers. But it’s not easy to convince his own body to move. More than ever, Varian feels completely out of place in this world. The mantra of _I don’t belong here_ echoes painfully through his thoughts, and he can’t help but to close his eyes and pray to vanish from existence. So he remains huddled up, pretending to sleep as long as he can with cold fingers clutching the fabric tightly in a vain attempt to keep warm. Ruddiger is not beside him to provide extra heat, most likely either following Past-Varian dutifully around the lab as he works, or busy stealing something questionably edible out of the trash.

He can’t block out reality forever, though. After some time Varian sits up, then stands with some effort. His body is moving slowly as though in a separate dimension from his mind, but it does move. One palm rests on the desk as a crutch to prevent hismself from crumpling back to the floor in a haphazard pile of exhaustion.

His doppelganger has stopped pacing and now stands before him, observing Varian’s struggles guardedly but without comment. “Good morning,” Past-Varian says after a beat, his tone clipped.

“Yeah,” Varian replies lamely, gaze trained on the floor.

Past-Varian flips his goggles back up onto his forehead, fingers twitching nervously. “It’s snowing pretty hard out there.”

“I know.”

Because of Varian’s outburst, the ease with which the two of them had spoken before has evaporated. Their differences had been laid bare for both to see; Varian’s righteous and festering anger, Past-Varian's indignant curiosity. Again Varian laments his own lack of belonging both here and in his own world. It’s not as though anyone in his timeline wants to see or hear from him, but here he’s truly just an extra limb. He’s technically not even this Quirin’s son, just an unwanted interloper, an invasive species.

Past-Varian clears his throat. “So, Futarian, I’ve been uh… _thinking_.”

He had expected Past-Varian to cut to the chase and confront Varian about his remarks the day prior. This opening statement is both much vaguer and more worrisome. “Thinking? That’s always dangerous,” Varian mutters, but still he refuses to make eye contact.

A huff. “I'm being serious, you know. And I'm not going to beat around the bush. I — I want you to tell me everything,” Past-Varian says, and it’s the most serious Varian has ever seen him. For once the other isn’t deferring to him, isn’t blindly trusting him — not that Varian really blames him, after the way he had acted the night before. “I want to know what happened, both yesterday in Corona and in general. Because I want us to be able to help each other, you know? I was mad for a bit, when you said you actually had no idea what was going on, or how you got here. But I can understand wanting to seem like you were in control of the situation, because you didn’t want to make me worry.” He’s rambling, just how Varian tends to when he’s nervous. “But now that I do know how you feel, and how much you've been struggling to keep it together, I think it’s more important than ever that you tell me about —”

“No.”

“H-huh?”

“I said no,” Varian repeats flatly, standing up a bit straighter. “I already said I wasn’t going to, and there’s even less point now. Just leave me be. Enjoy your ruined Old Corona. I can’t get home, and I can’t help you. Just pretend like I’m not even here.”

Anger flashes through the other’s eyes, though it subsides by the time he speaks again. “I’m not letting you get away without talking to me anymore,” Past-Varian says with conviction. “I deserve to know what’s going on as much as you do. I don’t care how much more you’ve seen in your own world than I have here. No matter what I have to resort to in order to get you to speak, I’ll do what it takes. So I hate to hold this over you, but if you don’t start explaining things to me, I’ll have to make you. By —" He bites his lip. "By force."

“Oh? How so, exactly?”

“I’ll tell Dad you’re here.”

Instantly every fiber of Varian’s being is on alert. “Uh, what? Are you out of your mind? No — you wouldn’t actually do that. You’d have to be some kind of idiot. Nice attempt at threatening me, though.”

Past-Varian raises an eyebrow. “First of all, it's not a threat. Second of all, why _shouldn’t_ I tell him you’re here?”

“Because —” Varian knows _he’d_ be at risk if Quirin knew about him, but Past-Varian wouldn’t have anything to worry about. If anything, telling Quirin about the reality of two Varians would completely take the blame off Past-Varian for his actions at the expense of worsening Varian’s potential punishment. His throat goes dry at the realization.

“Didn't think so. So are you going to talk?”

“Come on, this is ridiculous. What is this, an interrogation? Psychological torture?”

"I'm being serious. I want to know what's going on." Past-Varian takes a step towards the trapdoor. “Otherwise, I’ll go talk to Dad. _Right now._ ”

Varian hasn’t slept or eaten well for weeks, yet his body still finds the energy to lunge in front of the ladder before Past-Varian can place his foot on a single rung. “I won’t let you.”

“Won’t let me talk to my own dad?” Past-Varian challenges. “Listen, I know you’ve tried to help before this. And I know you mean well too, because  _I_ mean well. But you’re obviously really tired and stressed and not thinking straight. I swear I'm not doing this to get you in trouble, I just think Dad might be able to help _._ _Both_ of us.”

“Help _you_ , you mean,” Varian retorts. “You seriously think Dad isn’t going to want to punish the person who’s been impersonating his son for months? Don’t you understand the danger I’ll be in if you talk to him?”

Past-Varian stomps his foot, in that moment appearing very much a child. “Since when did Dad become some kind of heartless monster, huh? Just because he’s hard on us doesn’t mean he’s a unforgiving person. If we explain everything to him, I’m sure he’ll be sympathetic. Can you just let me handle something for once, in my own timeline?”

“ _Your_  own timeline? You still consider this  _your_ timeline, after everything I’ve done to prevent catastrophes that you don’t even know about?” Varian’s voice escalates, cracking with frustration. “For the past few months you’ve spent all your time above ground with Dad and the town while I’ve let myself stay locked up down here never seeing the light of day. How is this any better than my own timeline?” There’s a piece of scrap metal by his foot that he kicks across the room as punctuation. A loud _clang_ echoes as it bounces off the wall, and Past-Varian flinches. “I’m just rotting away down here while you live your ignorant best life. This has _never_ been fair for me.” The more he speaks the more his anger overflows, though anger at _what_ he’s not certain. Anger at everything, perhaps, at himself and his past self and Quirin and Rapunzel and the entire kingdom of Corona, anger that spills over and overrides reason in favor of ranting and striking back at anyone who undermines him. “And you _still_ won’t listen to me. You’re gonna go talk to Dad and get me kicked out so you can enjoy your life with him with me out of the way, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. And I don’t think Dad will kick you ou—”

“Save it,” Varian interrupts. “I knew this would happen sooner or later. It happens with everyone.”

Past-Varian bites his lip, deflating a bit as his shoulders shrink back. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says quietly, backing down for the first time in this conversation. “I really don’t…”

Varian laughs harshly. “It’s called betrayal. You’re _betraying_ me, aren’t you? It’s something we’re both pretty good at, you know.”

“I’m not betraying you!” Past-Varian protests. “I just —”

“You’re just — _nothing,”_ Varian snaps. “If you’re serious about telling Dad about me, then I’ll have to be serious about stopping you. Whatever it takes.” There’s no way he’s going to let this version of Quirin know what he’d done, what an utter and abject _failure_ he is. One disappointed father is enough for one lifetime. “Take one more step towards that trapdoor, and we’re enemies.”

"E-enemies? Are you out of your mind?"

"You heard me."

What are they even arguing about anymore? It’s nonsensical, but they’re both stubborn, and neither wants to outright admit they’re being unreasonable. And the more Varian glares at the other, the greater his annoyance grows. Past-Varian shares his face, and it’s a face Varian can’t stand. Just looking at himself is a sore reminder of how much he wishes he were someone else, someone strong and brave and worthwhile that his father would recognize. Not some scrawny, erratic scientist who can’t even run a successful experiment without destroying half the village.

“Here’s a better idea: _you_ stay down here for once, and _I’ll_ go see Dad,” Varian continues scathingly. “You can stay in your little dungeon for a while and see how much fun it is.” The desire to flee from the laboratory and the rocks and _himself_ is greater than it has ever been, a burning itch that wears down his common sense, leaving behind only the thought of escape. “Keep that sorry heap of blankets warm for me, would you?” Having made up his mind, he turns back to the trapdoor. What’s stopping him from fleeing this place? Nothing and no one, and certainly not some half-baked, weaker version of himself.

One hand is poised on the ladder’s rung when a puff of pink smoke surrounds him. Reflexively Varian moves to retreat — but he can’t. His feet are stuck fast to the ground by an all too familiar chemical compound he’d created himself to protect his lab against pesky intruders of both the human and raccoon variety. 

When the haze clears, Varian sees his doppelganger facing him with a second chemical grenade in his hand, arm arched backwards and poised to launch at any moment. But Past-Varian’s expression of unease is at odds with his body language, as though he’s dismayed by his own behavior.

Unfortunately for him, Varian doesn’t care about the intent behind the act. As far as he’s concerned, Past-Varian’s attack may as well be a declaration of war. Now all Varian can see before him is an adversary, someone who’s willing to go to great lengths to restrain him, and he won’t stand for it. If Past-Varian wants to fight him, then so be it. He who throws the first stone better be prepared to face the consequences. And Varian has a _lot_ of practice forcing others to face the consequences of their actions whether they want to or not. “Attacking with my own tricks,” Varian jeers, and again he laughs, because of course he was right all along about Past-Varian’s lack of loyalty to him! How wonderful and _vindicating_ for Varian that his dreams of betrayal had been a premonition rather than the product of senseless paranoia.

“It wasn’t an attack,” Past-Varian protests. “I — I just wanted to stop you from doing anything hasty. And I — okay, I guess I did something hasty too, but  — please, don't go anywhere. Just listen, we can talk this out. I won’t talk to Dad, if —”

“ _‘If?’_ Oh, so now we’re bartering.” Varian clicks his tongue sarcastically. “No, I don’t believe you. You’ll tell me that, and then you’ll talk to him anyway, because now that you've had the thought it'll always be there, nagging at the back of your mind." Without breaking eye contact with Past-Varian, his hand slowly retreats into his apron pocket as he speaks, fingers curling around the corked flask of neutralizing particle he always keeps handy on the off chance his raccoon trap misfires. "You'll talk to him, because it’s just the kind of thing we would do. We never listen, and our word means nothing.” Surreptitiously he slips his hand behind his back and flicks off the cork with his thumbnail, tilting the lip towards the floor and the sticky pile of goo around his ankles. Past-Varian is frozen, too distracted by Varian's words to notice his escape until the chemical at his feet begins to fizzle away, and by the time the other's gaze flicks to the floor, Varian is already free. Tossing the empty flask aside with a harsh clatter, he takes a step forward, fists balling at his sides. “We do what we want, we disappoint our friends and family, and we lie to ourselves. Isn’t that right?”

Past-Varian clenches his jaw. “So this is the kind of person you turned into, huh?”

Varian isn’t sure if it’s the other's judgmental tone or trembling lip or words themselves that push him over the edge. But his remaining restraint shatters in an instant, and a furious Varian lunges forward, his body attacking before his mind can even catch up. Past-Varian hasn't registered what's going on, the second pink grenade still raised uselessly in his hand, and all that flashes through Varian’s mind is the frenzied thought of _I have to stop him before he stops me._ Stop him from what, exactly? That part is unclear, like everything else. Varian doesn’t know his ultimate goal in this timeline and he never has. All he’s certain of is that Past-Varian is an obstacle now, and obstacles must be dealt with. Isn't that the essence of science, solving difficult problems and eliminating difficult obstacles along the way?

Varian grabs the gloved hand of his nemesis, and at the touch the other boy finally comes to life and yanks his arm away, tossing the remaining grenade haphazardly in the process. It overshoots Varian entirely and splatters against the opposite wall, leaving Past-Varian temporarily defenseless. What little fighting instinct Varian has kicks in at overdrive, and before Past-Varian can arm himself again, Varian grabs the closest chemical flask from his desk at random and tosses it in the other’s direction, one aerial projectile in response to another.

It’s only during the arc of its trajectory that Varian's eyes lock on what he's thrown, and with horror he realizes he's made a grave mistake. The red haze of rage temporarily fades from his vision, but before he can shout a warning, Past-Varian lifts one arm to shield his face, and the flask shatters against his hand, splattering the chemical onto his glove.

The substance he had tossed is a leftover ingredient of the compound Varian had used to sabotage Fernanda Pizazzo’s machine. Though the finished product is designed to only react to human skin, its individual parts are dangerous. This particular component, he remembers too late, is _corrosive._

Of course Varian would never intendto throw something actually harmful at his doppelganger — that would be cruel even by his own self-loathing standards. But the chemical acts faster than he can regret the deed, and the rubber of Past-Varian’s glove begins to sizzle as the chemical burns through his glove and drips onto the skin beneath. With a strangled cry Past-Varian tears off the glove and tosses it to the side, and it lands atop the puddle of pink goo from the poorly aimed grenade, its rubbers fingers curling involuntarily as the acid slowly eats away at the material. But the chemical had already reached Past-Varian's hand, snaking from his knuckle to the front of his palm. In moments the acid has made quick work of the skin, leaving a glistening line of bloody flesh in its wake. Varian swears he sees glints of bone through Past-Varian’s burnt skin, and Varian squints away as his legs buckle, appalled at what he’d accidentally done.

_This is my chance, while he’s injured._

Varian is disgusted by the conniving thought that crawls through his mind; he should be moving to _help_ the poor boy he’d just burned with acid, not plotting how best to dispose of him. But the events of his own timeline had taught him the importance of opportunism. Strike when the enemy is down to gain the advantage, even if you have to employ underhanded deceit to do it.

_When did Past-Varian become my enemy, exactly?_

“Was that... on purpose?”

Past-Varian’s voice is faint. Varian is surprised the other hasn’t already passed out from the sight of his own blood, but he chooses not to answer. Instead he grabs Past-Varian’s non-disfigured wrist in his own and yanks him further from the trapdoor, the tiny voice of reason at the back of his mind chastising him all the while.

At first Past-Varian lets himself be dragged like a listless doll, clutching his burned and bloody hand tightly to his chest. It takes only a moment for him to begin struggling again, twisting his wrist in Varian’s grasp. “Dad! H-hey, Dad! Help — help me!”

The sudden shout surprises Varian — and sets the flame of his animosity freshly ablaze, extinguishing his faint flicker of pity. “Shut up! What are you doing?!” Varian hisses under his breath, dragging the struggling boy away from the ladder. It’s taking all his strength just to hold him back; that’s what comes from trying to restrain someone with exactly the same amount of strength. _For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,_ Varian muses dully. He may be a violent criminal, but at least at his core he still has the heart of a scientist. _Just great._

Past-Varian continues to strain against his grip. “Nothing bad had happened till you showed up!” he hisses. “If you messed up your own timeline, that’s your problem. I’m not like you, and I can handle it myself!”

There’s no reason to protect Past-Varian’s safety when it will just get in the way of the bigger picture of saving Quirin. Varian is here for his _father,_ not to play savior to his stupid, naive past self who doesn’t understand anything. Varian knows from experience that unconditional trust only leads to failure and disappointment, that it hinders results and weakens convictions. In the greater scheme of things, his other self has never been his friend, and certainly not family. He’s a _hindrance._

Another wave of anger washes over Varian, and with a surge of force he torques the other’s arm, slamming Past-Varian's back against one of the black rocks poised menacingly in the center of the lab. Past-Varian whimpers, momentarily stunned, and Varian takes the opportunity to twist the wrist in his grasp. “I’m the one _solving_ the problem,” he sneers, apathetic to the pain etched into Past-Varian’s face, the watering of his eyes — every feature that could just as easily be his own face _._ “You know nothing, and you'll never understand. You have no idea what I’ve spared you!”

“You’re hurting me,” Past-Varian chokes out, barely audible.

Varian ignores him, eyes wandering to the menagerie of chemicals strewn across his desk. In one of the beakers is a sample of a golden liquid, one Varian recognizes all too well. It’s the chemical compound that had reacted to the black rock and entombed Quirin in his own failed timeline. His own timeline, where should have been Varian who was trapped, not his father. Quirin had shoved Varian out of the way to protect him, sacrificing his own freedom in return. If Varian had ended up in the amber, Quirin would still be safe.

_It was supposed to be me._

Varian's gaze travels over the boy, from his burnt and bloody hand to the agonized grit of his teeth as he struggles.

 _It still_ can _be me._

It’s a moment of pure madness that drives the thought; the beaker is in his hand before he realizes it, and Varian tosses a splash of the chemical onto the rock where he has pinned his counterpart. “I figured it out," Varian says calmly. "It's supposed to be you. If it’s you, Dad will be safe. It was all wrong back then, it should have been me. But this time I’ll have saved him…”

“What — what are you talking about?” Past-Varian’s eyes widen as the golden liquid begins to pop and sizzle on the surface of the rock. “You told me not to experiment on the rocks. You said it was dangerous. Let go of me!”

Varian stares down at him, unmoving. “If you insist.”

He lets go of the other’s wrist and jumps back just as amber tendrils sprout from the rock and snake their way towards Past-Varian, who cries out once before realizing the futility of his situation. Hurt flashes through his eyes, then resignation as the amber slinks its way around his body, crystalizing the bloody hand still clutched to his chest. “I never meant to betray you,” Past-Varian manages quietly, before the resin muzzle seals his lips and crawls up his face, sealing his fearful expression like a fossil.

It's over too fast, and Varian finds himself alone again.

_We’re family._

“I did that on purpose,” Varian whispers, fingers trailing down the amber slowly, tracing Past-Varian’s features,  _his_  features. The shame of his deed slithers down his spine, but instead of the guilt he should be feeling, his mind is blank. Everything blurs together in this eternal nightmare, every emotion mixing like paint that had once contained a spectrum of hues and is now a muddled black.

Is this even real, or the product of his mind having splintered?

Does he even exist here?

Does it matter?

“Varian?! Are you okay down there?”

_Dad._

At first he thinks he had hallucinated the voice amidst his troubled rumination of philosophy — why else would his father be calling out to him? And then the explanation hits him: Past-Varian had called out for Quirin during their struggle, though whether that had been a minute or an hour ago, Varian isn’t sure anymore. All he knows is that Quirin is rushing towards him and will enter the lab soon. And when that happens, there is absolutely no way Varian is going to allow his father to see what he'd done.

Varian hastily grabs the biggest tarp from the base of his makeshift bed and tosses it haphazardly over the amber spire, smoothing it with his hands until any traces of the boy trapped within are obstructed from view. A precarious disguise for sure, but it's all he can manage in what little time he has left.

“Varian, answer me!”

Varian freezes. Now he has to invent a plausible excuse on the spot so that his past self’s pleading wails would have a believable cover story. _Okay, think_ — for what reason would he have begged for his father’s help? What's something he can't handle on his own?

_I’m afraid of blood._

It’s the first thought that intrudes in his frantic mind, and Varian shivers. Surely his father won’t notice a doppelganger imprisoned behind the tarp if his son is standing before him with a terrible injury. But even the thought of bleeding makes Varian feel faint. Can he really go through with injuring himself for the sake of a ruse? Unfortunately, there’s no time for him to come up with anything better. He has about ten seconds before Quirin bursts into the lab expecting a crisis, so he’ll have to create one, and _fast._

_“Varian!”_

A wave of nauseous anxiety overtakes him as his father's voice grows louder, and Varian’s hand moves on reflex, grabbing an empty beaker from the table and dashing it against the wood surface in one rapid motion. Light glints off the splintered shards, transforming what had once been a scientific tool into an array of tiny blades.

 _Don't think. Just_ —

Before he can lose his nerve, Varian rips off his gloves, tossing them across the room, and slams his hand down on the broken glass.

The pain shoots up his wrist and arm as though someone had run the flame of a blowtorch up the line of his vein, and Varian bites his lip _hard._ No, he has never done well with blood, and now there’s a line of it oozing from his palm, warm and sticky and metallic, a sanguine vine creeping across his skin — much like another injury he had recently caused. There’s no time to appreciate the twisted irony as his body jerks in recoil, and Varian can feel the embedded glass scrape across bone, wedged between two metacarpals. Knees buckling, he reaches out to steady himself — oh no, oh _god,_ his dominant hand is riddled with glass, and before he can retract the motion his palm hits the table, driving the glass in further.  Like metal grating on metal the shards shift within his skin, sending tremors through his body and bile to the front of his throat.

“D-dad?” Now there’s a tinge of real panic in his voice. “I’m hurt, I need — I —” He swoons, averting his gaze from the smears of his own blood on the glass shards glistening red. Black dots speckle the edge of his peripheral vision as his hysteria rises, and — oh, he may actually pass out. This fake crisis has become very real, very quickly.

There’s a flurry of footsteps, and suddenly Quirin is beside him, one strong arm wrapped around Varian’s shoulders to steady him. “Varian!” he barks, distress flashing across his face at the gory splatter across the desk. “How — what happened?”

“It was an accident,” Varian lies shakily, breath hitching in his throat. Frantically he wonders if he had somehow left behind evidence that the injury is self-inflicted, but his father seems more upset than suspicious. “I didn’t mean — I set the glass down, I didn’t realize it had tipped over and broken — and then I — my hand —” Though the lie itself doesn’t bother him, Varian is struggling to speak without stammering, brain entirely focused on the pain of his hand and blood loss. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond, I — I froze up.”

Gingerly Quirin lowers Varian’s body into a chair beside the desk. “We’ll get — uh, we’ll get the glass out, and get those cuts washed,” he stammers. “And tomorrow, when the storm is passed, we'll go to a real doctor, okay? You need to be more careful — how many times have I warned you about this, Varian? Don’t you usually wear gloves down here?” From his satchel he produces an emergency roll of gauze and unravels it, setting it on the table. “If you’re that careless with your experiments, then I won’t be able to trust you with the responsibility of having your own lab anymore.”

“Sorry,” Varian says meekly, lowering his gaze — though when he catches sight of a smear of his blood that had dripped to the floor, he quickly looks up again to meet his father’s eyes. “Usually I do — I just — this time I forgot, and —”

Quirin shakes his head. “No time for excuses, Varian. Give me your hand. Palm out.”

Trembling violently, Varian complies, squinting away from the sight of his wound.

His father picks up a pair of tongs from a haphazard pile of tools. “Is this clean?”

“Y-yeah,” Varian says quickly, just wanting to get the extraction over with. In truth, he has no idea whether or not Past-Varian had used the tongs recently, but he’s in enough pain that he’s willing to risk a bit of contamination to make it stop.

Quirin doesn’t seem convinced, but clicks the tongs together once with his fingers before turning back to Varian. “I’m no doctor, but I’m going to try to pull the glass out  _quickly_ , then wrap your hand. Close your eyes if you need to. Got it?”

Varian squints his eyes shut, nodding — but even when he tells himself he’s ready, he’s not. It’s all over in an instant, but the horrible sensation of glass scraping within him still lingers, and shudders as the metallic jolt of pain spasms from his palm to his wrist. Quirin bandages his hand a bit too tightly, and Varian feels the rhythm of his pulse through the gauze. He squints his eyes shut, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

“That wasn't so bad, was it?” Quirin’s inquiry sounds far away.

Varian nods miserably. “Th-thanks…” It strikes him then that his dad is _there,_ in the flesh, all his imperfect parenting and stern chiding and disappointments.  Everything melts away in an instant, all of Varian’s anger and guilt and petulance, and all that remains is an inexplicable mixture of grief and exhaustion that ripples through him, draining all the fight away. He’s so _tired_ , tired of lashing out and tired of making mistakes. Tired of himself. 

With a wild sob Varian ducks his head into the safety of his father’s chest. Quirin flinches with hesitation — the man had never been much for physical affection — but after a moment his father’s arms wrap around him gently. “I’m glad you’re here,” Varian wails, clinging to Quirin with the desperation of a child. “I got scared. I — I thought I’d never see you again, I thought — I thought —”

“I’m here, Varian, calm down. You're fine.”

Wildly he shakes his head. “You were dead, because of me. We lost everything. I ruined  _everything._ "

“You need rest,” Quirin says quietly, running a hand through Varian’s hair. “And not the kind you usually have, asleep on your desk. _Real_ rest.” Before Varian can protest, Quirin steps forward and scoops him into his arms in one swift motion.

“I don’t need you to carry me,” Varian mutters. “I’m fine.”

“And I don’t want you climbing that ladder with your hand injured,” Quirin retorts. “That’s final.”

With one arm tucked gingerly against his chest and the other slung around his father’s shoulder, Varian forces his body to relax as Quirin climbs the ladder practically one-armed. He shuts his eyes, his mind swarming with thoughts. _Dad’s alive, I did well. I just attacked the other me, I’m a monster. I’m in pain, I’m going to pass out. I want to sleep forever, I want to stay here, I deserve to go home, I’m an impostor._ The flurry overwhelms him; his head throbs painfully and he blinks back tears. It would be so much easier to not think at all, to go back to that numbness he had felt before.

The rhythm of Quirin’s footsteps ceases, and Varian is set down somewhere soft. “Where’m I?” he manages, the sound of his own voice making him queasy.

“My room,” Quirin replies. “You’ve spent too many nights asleep at your desk. It’s not healthy, Varian. You need to get some real rest.”

“Y-yeah…” It’s the first time in months Varian has slept in a real bed and not on the floor of the underground laboratory. The pillows are plush, the blankets are warm, and the draft of the underground is nonexistent. His only discomfort comes from his bandaged hand, still throbbing with pain at even the slightest movement. Tentatively he stretches out, fatigue pooling through his limbs in an instant. “Hey, Dad?” Varian mumbles sleepily.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about what happened in Corona…”

“Varian,” Quirin interrupts. “I’m not going to talk about it.”

“But —”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Quirin says, softer this time. “I know why you acted the way you did. But I can’t get the king involved in this — or you.”

Varian remains silent, focusing on the warmth of the pillow on his face and not the churning nausea of betrayal as he pictures his father’s lies once again.

“I know it hurts you to not know verything,” Quirin continues. “You’ve always been curious, unquenchably so. More so than I ever was at your age. Nothing can contain you, not even me. And I know that. And yet — I just want you to listen to me sometimes, Varian. I want to keep you safe — even if that means keeping you in the dark sometimes. I just want you to understand that.”

He does. Now more than ever Varian understands his dad’s instinct to remain silent about important matters. He’d done the same thing to Past-Varian after all, keeping him in the dark despite the other’s repeated protests. He hadn’t wanted to tell his doppelganger about everything he’d done and everyone he’d hurt in the process, and now it’s too late to wonder whether his decision had been right or wrong. Past-Varian is out of the picture, and what matters now is that Varian here with his father, even though this Quirin isn’t _his_ Quirin, and he isn’t this Quirin’s Varian.

He wonders if Quirin too had made mistakes in his past that ashamed him, mistakes he’d rather not share. For once Varian feels sympathetic towards his father’s desire for reticence.

“I know, Dad,” he says softly, and it’s all he can bring himself to say.

There’s a shuffle of movement, and Varian blinks his eyes open blearily to find that to his surprise his father has laid down next to him. Quirin pushes his bangs back from his forehead with attentiveness in his eyes and a parental concern that is for once comforting rather than condescending. “You’ve grown,” Quirin says, and Varian’s heart stutters unpleasantly. “I haven’t even been around you enough lately to notice. I'm sorry.” 

“It’s all right,” Varian murmurs.“You’ve been busy. I barely even noticed it myself.”

 _You’re taller than I am._  

 _I guess I am. What of it?_  

_So, that’s enough proof we’re different people._

Back when Past-Varian had pointed it out, it had been a comfort to know they had distinct identities. Now thinking about it just reads like the bad punchline of a sick joke.

Varian shuffles closer to his father, clutching his sleeve tightly with his uninjured hand. He doesn’t want to think of it _._ _Anything_ but that.

“Are you all right...?” Quirin says.

“I just want to sleep,” Varian whispers. “Will you stay with me?” How young the question makes him sound, how weak. The last time he had slept beside his father he had been a much younger child, crying and tugging on Quirin’s shirt after waking in a frenzy from a terrible nightmare.

Today isn't much different.

“Of course,” Quirin assures him gently, and it’s all he needs to hear to quell the tempest of his thoughts, if only temporarily.

It’s warm with his father’s body heat beside him.

_Now that the other me took Dad’s place in the amber, maybe I can stay here with Dad..._

His exhausted mind clings to the impossible fantasy as he slips into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say except: yikes


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The TTS discord server is doing a Varian appreciation week this week, and what better day to post another gut-wrenching, way-too-long chapter of this mess than AU day?
> 
> Welcome to another chapter of Mr. ~~Toad's~~ Varian's Wild Ride™

Sleep is shallow but restful somehow, devoid of dreams as though the past has been shoved to the back of Varian's consciousness. Each time he nearly visualizes something concrete amidst his slumber it evaporates in an instant, leaving him with the aftertaste of lingering unease but nothing jarring enough to jolt him awake.

The transition from asleep to conscious is seamless; one moment his breathing is soft and regular, and in the next he’s become painfully aware that his brain has switched back on fully. His eyes remain shut as he savors his last few moments of thoughtless relaxation.

“Dad… are you there?”

When there’s no answer, Varian blinks his eyes open. Beside him the bed is empty, covers pulled back and sheets cold. He sits up with a slow yawn and stretches his arms over his head. Dusty sunlight filters through the panels of the window, and as Varian grows more awake he realizes that the storm has passed and the flurries of snow have vanished without incident. No facing the storm, no disaster, no frantic journey to Corona begging for help. And this time, his father’s freedom is still intact.

Quirin isn’t in the room though, and Varian decides to head downstairs to look for him and make himself tea or breakfast if he can’t find his father, maybe wash his his face to dispel the lingering exhaustion. As per usual he can’t remember the last time he’s eaten, and he’s definitely lost weight recently judging by the weakness in his limbs and gaunt lines etched around his cheekbones which he catches a glimpse of in the nearby window.

How strange to be back in his home again, just him and his father. Varian and Quirin, father and son, living together in Old Corona. ...No, it’s not strange — it’s as it should be. Things are almost back to normal. In a few more days, every threat will have passed and the stories of their lives will be back on track. Perhaps Quirin will even begin to trust him with the truths of his past, and the two can work together to save their village from the ever-present advancement of the black rocks. A united family, as it should be.

The storm cloud of doubt still lingers, but Varian tells himself it’s fine. Starting today, things will be different than before. No defying his father, no dangerous experiments, no shouting at the king. He can move on without a glance behind him.

Varian had fallen asleep wearing his regular work clothes save for his boots and gloves, the latter of which are still somewhere in his lab after he’d taken them off to slice his own hand which unfortunately is still throbbing the following morning. With a heavy sigh he slides out of bed, wincing when his injured hand brushes against the bed frame, and after sliding into his boots he begins to pad through the hallways of his father’s house with bleary eyes and wrinkled clothes.

“Dad?” he asks again through another yawn, poking his head around the corner into their bare-bones kitchen. Still nothing. 

Something feels wrong. When Varian reaches the entryway of the house he notices with unease that his father’s shoes are nowhere to be seen. More than likely Quirin is simply making his rounds through Old Corona, checking up on the villagers in the aftermath of the storm. The last time it had stormed here, one of their neighbor’s roofs had collapsed from moisture and rot, and Quirin had spent the better part of the morning after lending his hammer to the restoration efforts. As the head of the village, it is Quirin's duty to check up on the well-being of his people, even if his son's needs are often sidelined in the process. Presumably this is the reason for his absence now.

But Varian can’t shake the feeling he’s gone for a different reason. A _worse_ reason. There’s no basis for the feeling other than flimsy intuition, and intuition is a disease to science, a bias that cannot be measured and one that leads to skewed data. Like magic, it has no place in the mind of a scientist priding himself on experimental data and statistics. Yet as of late, intuition has completely poisoned Varian, an infection eating away at his practical intelligence like fungal spores. Now around every corner of his life lies an unpredictable outcome, a horror of unforeseen probability that paralyzes his senses and throws his actions into unspeakable disarray. The amber crystallizing his father had created the first fracture, and now with each blow to his conscience, the spiderweb-thin crack of paranoia crawls further across his mind.

One more impact and he may shatter completely.

He stands still next to the front door, praying to hear a second pair of footsteps, his father’s voice resounding from outside, anything at all — but with each second of silence it becomes increasingly clear there’s no one else in the house. Perhaps Quirin is speaking to the residents of the house across the road about the water that had recently been cut off when the black rocks shredded through the well. If the main well is destroyed and the rest of the water supply is frozen over from the storm, that would spell trouble for all of them. It only makes sense that Quirin would prioritize such a dire problem.

Varian reaches for the door handle, but hesitates. Something’s stopping him from moving forward, that intangible feeling not rooted in science.  _Intuition._

A bead of sweat trickles down his cheek.

With a frustrated sigh he opens the door _,_ stepping out into the chilly morning air. There’s still a thin layer of snow on the ground, but most of it has melted in the morning sun. Even with the constant eyesore of the black rocks piercing through the view, Varian can appreciate the beauty of Old Corona sparkling in the light, snow dusting the rooftops like crystals of sugar.

_Crystals._

Shaking his head to dispel the images of amber flickering through his mind, Varian takes a step into the snow — and frowns. His boot hadn’t sunk down as much as he’d expected, and when he glances at his feet he sees he has stepped into someone else’s much bigger footprint. So his father _had_ left the house first. Well, at least if Quirin left a trail, it will be that much easier to catch up to him. Idly he scans the horizon to track the direction of the footprints. They don’t lead to the neighbor’s house as expected, but across the way to Varian’s lab.

Well — that doesn’t mean anything, he reassures himself desperately. Hadn’t Quirin carried him back from the lab the day before? Those footprints could be left over from then. ...No, that’s not possible. Yesterday it had been snowing hard enough to cover any tracks in an instant. Not only that, but the toes of the footprints are clearly pointing away from the front door, not towards it.

That’s not good.

_If Dad is is in my lab, that means he could see —_

Varian lunges forward in a sprint, feet slipping wildly on patches of ice as he practically hurls himself at the door of his workshop. With both hands he scrabbles to open the door even as his gauze-bound hand throbs as though it’s splitting in two, chest heaving with breathless dismay when he spots the trapdoor to the underground slightly ajar.

_No, no, this can’t be happening._

Couldn’t he have spent one peaceful day with his father? Half a day, even? Varian shouldn’t believe in karma, a superstition that can’t be proven through the scientific method, yet right now he feels its shadow looming behind him with a crescent grin, laughing at the misery he’s brought upon himself.The world had given Varian a second chance to redeem himself, and all he had proven was that he’s just as selfish and awful and undeserving of peace as ever, perhaps even less deserving than before. By all means, he should take this moment to flee; run from his father, run from Corona, retreat somewhere into the forest and live out the rest of his pitiful days alone, or seek a high cliff to step off and rid the world of his plague.

And of course he does exactly the opposite of that, desperately curious until the end. 

The tarp he had used to cover the amber is crumpled in a heap on the floor when Varian painfully hoists himself down the ladder, and Quirin stands motionless before the massive crystal stretching towards the ceiling, hands slack at his sides. Not even the scuffling of Varian scaling the ladder had moved Quirin, body as still as though he too were trapped in amber — another unwanted thought which sends a shiver down Varian's spine. Varian wonders how long his father has been standing there in blank disbelief, unable to comprehend the vision he sees before him of his son petrified, when just hours before Quirin had allowed an impostor to crawl in bed beside him and leech off his undeserved fatherly feelings.

“Dad…?”

Quirin turns to look at him then, and his eyes are so defeated, so detached. Something within Varian’s spirit breaks then as whatever fight left within him gives way to turmoil. As he stands nervously, a cornered animal with his back pressed to the wall, Quirin utters just the words to shatter him.

“Who are you?”

What's worse than the question is that Varian doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t even know if he _has_ a response anymore. He remains silent.

Quirin approaches him cautiously and takes Varian’s wrist in his hand. Not sure what’s going on, Varian doesn’t think to move, and he doesn’t realize what’s happening until a soft _click_ alerts him to the fact that he’s just been shackled to the desk. He looks at his wrist, sees the glint of the cuff, and turns back to his father with confusion. “Why?” Varian asks, not certain he wishes to hear the answer.

“You’re using some kind of dark magic, aren’t you? To impersonate my son?” Quirin’s voice is level, but strained. “Did the Brotherhood send you to keep an eye on me?”

“H-huh?” Varian stammers. “The what? I’m — I’m not impersonating anyone, I —”

“That is, if you’re even human and not one of that demon's apparitions.” Quirin runs a hand down his face. "In that case, I suppose I'm wasting my time reasoning with you."

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Varian manages. That, at least, is the truth.

“I had a strange feeling the past few days,” Quirin said. “That something wasn’t right with you. Especially when we went to Corona. And I felt guilty, wondering if I’d been so distant that I forgot what my own son was like. But I know now that I should have trusted my instincts.”

“I still _am_ your son,” Varian retorts, stung by his father’s words. “If you’d just let me explain, then… I don’t know. I don't  _know_. I mean, I know how it looks, and it looks bad, but…”

There’s clear distrust blazing in Quirin’s eyes when he speaks again. “What did you do to him?”

Varian bites his lip, looks at the floor. Tears are welling in his eyes, and he tries with all his might not to let them burst forth.

“Don’t you dare go silent — my son’s in there!” Quirin’s fist slams against the desk, and simultaneously there’s a crash of glass. Startled, Varian's neck jerks up to see that one of the flasks at the edge of the table had toppled to the floor with the force of the impact.

Oh, so now his father is going to lecture _him_ about going silent? How laughably ironic. “Maybe if you hadn’t lied about the rocks, none of this would had happened!” Varian shouts. “If you’d just told me what was going on, I could have helped you.” The pent up frustration at his own Quirin spills over despite knowing that airing his grievances at _this_ Quirin will get him nowhere. “If you hadn’t treated me like a child, I —”

“Stop.”

The word is spoken with such chilling finality that Varian’s jaw locks mid-word and he clamps his mouth shut, swallowing as his throat hitches painfully.

“Do you know how to reverse this? To free him?”

“No,” Varian chokes out miserably. If he knew the answer to that, he never would have wound up here in the first place.

Quirin sighs, gaze still fixated on Past-Varian’s crystallized body. Varian chances a quick look, and his stomach churns having to once again visualize the reality he’s created. That expression of hurt on the other boy’s face is preserved there for eternity, reminding Varian that it was never Past-Varian who needed to be sacrificed in the first place. It was _him_ , in his own timeline. No matter how stubbornly he had tried to look away from the truth, Varian is the only one who’s to blame. 

In that moment, if it had been possible to switch places with Past-Varian, to fossilize himself for eternity and give the other boy another chance at living a happy life with his father, Varian would have done so in an instant.

Quirin turns towards him and reaches out, and Varian shrinks back, convinced he’s about to be slapped for real. He wouldn’t blame his father for doing so — after all, Varian is a liar and a traitor, a parasite upon this timeline. Quirin would never hit his own child of course, but his own child is trapped in amber. Apprehending Varian is the equivalent of apprehending a nameless criminal.

But his father never moves further forward, which prompts Varian to finally look up. He assumes Quirin is hesitating out of basic human decency and self control, something Varian himself had lacked severely when facing his past self. Yet the lull is too long for simple hesitation. Quirin’s arm drops, and he stares at his feet with distress. Varian’s gaze follows, and the realization crashes upon him. It’s not that his father is hesitating, but rather that he _can’t_ move forward, because —

The amber has once again begun to spread.

Tendrils of the crystals have begun slithering from Quirin’s ankles to his waist, and Varian freezes, completely unable to comprehend what’s happening. His body separates from his mind, floating in a detached state as his worst fears play out before him. He squeezes his eyes shut, praying to warp away from this impossibly lucid dream. But everything is still there when he opens his eyes again. He's not curled under the covers in his father's bed, happily freed from the nightmare.  _That_ is the dream;  _this_ is reality.

“No!” Varian screams, rattling his chained wrist futilely against the wood of the table. “What — how? _How?!_ ”

“Whatever was in that flask,” Quirin says, and his voice is far too calm for the situation. “Is that what you used to trap my son, too?”

“What fla—” The past few minutes have been an impossible blur, but the sound of crashing glass comes back to him then, when Quirin had hit the table with his fist. The progression of the scene start to click together in Varian's mind like the joints of an automaton. The flask containing the gold chemical had fallen to the floor and broken into pieces near the base of the amber. Even though he remembers splashing the substance onto the black rocks to trap Past-Varian, the flask must have not been completely empty after that, Varian realizes grimly. Some of the remaining liquid must have splattered against the amber when the flask hit the floor and started the crystallization anew.

An unhappy, unfortunate accident — much like the rest of his life.

“Dad, I’m so sorry,” Varian sobs, yanking against his shackle to no avail. “I never meant for this to happen, not again…”

_Not again, Varian._

To his surprise, Quirn smiles sadly, even as the amber slinks from his torso to neck. “This was my fault, Varian,” he says, and Varian feels his heart break at the sound of his own name from his father’s lips, the undeserved acknowledgement that he's not an imposter. “I should have listened to you.”

It’s all he can manage before the amber envelops him completely, sealing the painful and understanding expression on his features.

“I’m sorry,” Varian whispers. It’s the only response he musters, the only thought echoing through his mind. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I'm...”

Darkness envelops his thoughts, and he finally gives up.

...Almost, but not quite.

There’s no time to wallow in self-pity, no time to acknowledge the empty failures of his own design. The desk begins to lift off the table as the amber rises, Varian’s feet dangling in midair as the crystal creeps towards his chained arm. With no time to grieve for his father, the panic of his own situation sets in and he begins to struggle — but of course he can’t break a metal shackle; he hardly has the strength to lift a heavy book without his arms wobbling.

A gray blur darts across the floor and begins scrabbling up the ledges of amber, and Varian realizes with chagrin that it’s Ruddiger. Clamped between the raccoon’s teeth is a key, one he must have stolen quietly from Quirin during their confrontation, and forlornly he sets it down on the desk next to Varian’s unchained arm, a sad whimper sounding from his muzzle.

"Thanks, buddy," Varian whispers. Ruddiger skitters off with wide eyes, still wary of this false version of his friend. Varian can't blame him.

It’s painful to hold the key amidst his bandages, and by all means Varian knows he should let himself be consumed by the amber as fate intended. Yet Varian doesn’t think twice before freeing himself, desperately rotating the key and scrambling down the side of the rising table once the shackle has released. Light from the amber reflects downward like a stained glass window, surrounding Varian in a distorted fractal as he crawls across the floor to put as much distance between himself and his scientific abomination as he can.

It takes what feels like years for Varian to haul himself to his feet and begin scaling the ladder again; his feet slip off every rung and his knees buckle with defeat, his bandaged hand numbly grasping at the wood, barely able to feel anything other than pain as he hoists himself towards the trapdoor. For a wild moment, he considers letting go and allowing gravity to take its course, but unfortunately he’s probably not high enough from the ground to die instantly upon landing. It’s more likely that he’ll smash his head against the ground, pass out from the concussion, and then wake up at some point later in agony, with blurry vision and blood leaking from the point of impact. Not worth the pain, even if he may deserve it.

Heaving himself through the trapdoor with whatever remaining strength he has, Varian kicks the door shut behind him and collapses onto the floor of his study, unwilling to propel himself forward another step.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps again, to no one. Seconds tick by, distorted by the exhaustion and horror of what’s happened, and tears begin to leak from the corners of his eyes. If each second feels like an hour, then the rest of his life will crawl by like an eternity, a fitting punishment for the eternity of mistakes he’s made and lives he’s ruined. 

His ears are ringing. He has no strength to stand. Time blurs by. The sunlight from the window fades in and out as clouds shift across the sky, each swell of light mocking him as it illuminates his surroundings only to be snatched away over and over and over again.

A puff of dust floats past his nose as he lies there on the ground, curled up in the dirt in a fetal position, and he sneezes softly. How pathetic. Good thing he’s alone.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

At first Varian believes the sound to be the amplified pulse of a throbbing headache localized within his own skull. But when he glances up he sees the wood of the door shaking with each knock, and sluggishly he forces himself to stand, halfheartedly straightening his pants and apron. He can feel the imprint of the floor on his cheek when he brushes off the pebbles of dust.

He staggers to the entrance without first asking his visitor to identify themselves. A pang of doubt tells him that this could easily be a guard of Corona here to arrest him, or perhaps one of his neighbors who had been alerted to his crimes, and Varian should probably be more careful. Then he reminds himself that he may as well be arrested, since there's nothing else for him to do in this world, or ever really. Rotting in jail seems preferable to being loose in the world causing problems for more people.

That would be quite the ironic turn, going to jail in this timeline instead of the other one. Almost laughable, really.

Varian opens the door.

“Varian? Is that you? Oh my gosh, what’s wrong — are you hurt?”

Varian is unwilling to believe what he’s seeing — rather, _who_ he's seeing. “Rapunzel…?” If he hadn’t been hallucinating before, he definitely is now. What would she be doing in Old Corona? Is the Royal Guard too busy to come here, and _she’s_ here to arrest him instead? If that's the case, it's almost flattering she'd show up to give him a royal condemnation in person.

“What do you mean, hurt?” It’s difficult to speak, and his voice barely forces its way from his throat. 

She gestures to his hand wrapped in rust-stained bandages, and Varian shrinks back at the reminder. “Your hand, what happened? I mean, um… you don’t have to tell me, but it wasn’t like that when I saw you the other day. Did you get into a fight? Are you safe?”

“It was just —” His words halt. “Nothing, just a lab mishap.”

“If only the healing incantation still worked,” Rapunzel mumbles, eyes downcast. “I could fix that for you…” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Varian says, turning his face away from her as his cheeks burn. Pity is the last thing he wants from _Rapunzel_ of all people. “Forget that. Why are you here? To punish me?”

“For what, yelling at the king?” She laughs nervously. “I don’t really mind. My father will get over it too, I'm sure. And now that I’ve seen how bad everything is out here, I honestly understand why you said what you did.”

“No, for —” So she doesn’t know what happened here. The self-incriminating words die mid sentence. “Never mind. You didn’t answer the first question, though. If you're not here to punish me, you must have some other motive.” He stands between the princess and the trapdoor, feet planted firmly as he guards the evidence of the horrors he had created. "Is it the result of the tests on your hair you want? I already told you I don't have them."

She shakes her head. “I’m here because that’s what we agreed at the castle,” Rapunzel says. “We were going to make an exchange, right? Well, um — I said I’d come even if you didn’t tell me anything, but you were insistent that we make it an exchange. You said you would tell me everything, and I'd come here and help you. Though I suppose we got interrupted...”

Varian “But I never told you anything, so why did — why did you still…?”

“The agreement works both ways, Varian,” Rapunzel says quietly. “I agreed to come to Old Corona if you told me everything. That was our deal, right? But it doesn’t matter to me what order we do it in. I came to Old Corona like you wanted me to. So maybe we can talk, if you're still up for it?”

“You kept your word,” Varian whispers, eyes welling with tears. “Before I even kept mine. You kept — you —”

In a crumple of limbs and despair Varian collapses into the princess’s arms, and he cries without restraint, months of tears repenting for so many failures, so much hurt and regret. All around them the black rocks surrounding his village echo his wails off their steadfast spires as Rapunzel strokes his hair, and her body is so warm. She doesn’t pull away, of course she doesn’t, because this is the same girl who committed treason to help him, the one who snuck into his lab on his flimsy word and a cryptic letter, the one who trusted him even when he didn't trust her. “I killed them,” he sobs. “Dad, and Varian, and — and I just wanted them to be able to live together, but I wanted it for myself too, and now I have nothing and they’re — they’re —”

“Please back up a little,” Rapunzel says quickly, alarmed. “W-what do you mean, you killed Varian? Aren’t you…?”

It's risky and probably stupid, but he doesn't have the energy or willpower to lie at the moment. Varian tells her everything, the truth spilling out in a messy storm of words and sobs and shaking; of his own timeline, the things he’d done to Rapunzel’s friends and family; of his second chance, of trying to take his doppelganger’s place in a fit of wild desperation; of his father’s petrification for the second time and the weight of his failures crashing thunderously upon him. She listens patiently and hums with sympathy when the timing is appropriate, one hand curling around his shoulders in a gentle embrace. He expects to feel disgusted by her proximity, but he doesn't, not in the slightest. It would be an overstatement to say he's  _happy_ she's here, because currently he's not happy about anything. But it's undoubtedly better than being alone. 

Varian’s sobs gradually reduce to sniffles, then shuddering breaths as he rests his chin against her shoulder. It had been a relief to cry, but now that it’s all out of his system, he just feels a bit ridiculous. And soggy.

“Standing up to your dad in Corona like that was very brave,” Rapunzel says after a long silence. “I didn't see you do all the things in your own past, but I know you're not a bad person. Fighting a futile struggle like that is enough to make anyone feel hopeless." 

“Aren’t — aren’t you bothered?” Varian challenges, ignoring the praise as he leans back to look Rapunzel in the eye, wiping the moisture from his eyes with the back of his unbandaged knuckle. “Knowing that I’m a fake.”

She shakes her head. “You’re not a fake, Varian."

"Come with me," he says suddenly, legs heavy as lead pipes as he turns his body to face the trapdoor. "See for yourself what I've done, and tell me I'm brave."

"You don't have to show me if you don't want to," Rapunzel says quietly.

"I want to."

Varian descends the latter first, Rapunzel padding softly behind him with her usual bare feet. The tip of her bundled hair dangles in front of Varian's nose, and he has to fight the urge to sneeze.

"Sorry," Rapunzel says with a lopsided smile. "Maybe I should have gone first?"

He doesn't answer. They've reached the underground, and  _that_ is still here.  _That_ which is badly hidden under a misshapen tarp,  _that_ whose jagged shards of amber still poke visibly out from the fabric.  _That_ which may as well condemn Varian's soul to eternal hell — if he was superstitious enough to believe that sort of thing.

Which, these days, he very well might be.

With a robotic tug of his hand the tarp flutters to the ground, revealing the full scale of the amber and everything underneath. Quirin, with that immortalized flash of betrayal and anger locked in place. And behind him, his doppelganger, expression hurt and very frightened. Even through the distorted panels of amber Varian can see the blackened scorch marks running down the side of Past-Varian’s hand where the chemical he’d tossed had burned through flesh, and he silently prays Rapunzel doesn’t notice or ask.

The princess covers her mouth with a gasp, stepping back with dismay. Varian expects her to attack him or run from him after witnessing the true carnage of what he’d done, but she remains still.

“Well?” Varian challenges, unable to bear the quiet a moment longer.

“It’s awful,” Rapunzel whispers, clutching her hands to her chest. “Oh, Varian, I’m so sorry.”

He scoffs. “Why are _you_ sorry? I did this, remember?”

“The rocks are here because of me,” Rapunzel says hollowly. “I should have known that my selfish adventures could get people hurt. I just wanted to leave the castle, and I... and all of this...”

She really means it, Varian realizes. Rapunzel had taken his scathing remarks to heart and truly believes she is to blame for this nightmare. But rather than satisfy him, watching Rapunzel verbally flagellate herself just makes everything bleaker. “Forget it,” he says awkwardly. “Stop blaming yourself. I don’t — I don’t want to waste time comforting you.”

Running a hand through her hair, Rapunzel nods. “Right. Of course. Now is _not_ the time to feel sorry for myself.” Nervously she laughs,which morphs into a sigh. “It was hard for me to believe this was true even though I trust you,” Rapunzel says, “but there’s really no denying it. There’s… really two of you.”

“Not anymore,” Varian murmurs.

An arm is draped over his shoulder, and he glances up as Rapunzel tugs him close, face burning with the shame of receiving undeserved comfort. “We’ll get them out,” she reassures him. “No broken promises this time. Just effort, until it happens.”

“And then what happens to me?” The fear of his situation is creeping up on him again; Varian doesn't know where he belongs, but the fact remains that his father and doppelganger would definitely both resent him now, even if he and Rapunzel managed to free them. It had been childish to ever believe he could legitimately stay in a timeline that wasn’t his own and form a family with people who had no place for him.

“You won’t be punished like last time — that I can promise. If my dad tries to arrest you, I'll, um — hit him with my frying pan? Not too hard, though. Just a persuasive tap, to knock some sense into him.”

Varian shakes his head. “No, I mean, where do I _go?”_

“It doesn’t matter if you’re the ‘real’ Varian or not,” Rapunzel says firmly. “To me, you’re the one I know. You have a place here, even if you don’t believe it. But if we can get this Varian and Quirin free… you may be able to free your own father, too. And things can be okay in your own life.”

“Why should I deserve that?” Varian asks dully. "I'm a criminal in my own life. I committed treason." 

“No, you a good person," she insists. "You’ve just been through a lot. Don’t doubt yourself, okay?”

His lip trembles. He doesn’t want to break down in front of her again, but he’s so _exhausted,_ and the encouragement only serves to weaken his resolve further. “I guess. So, uh. Can we get out of here now? I don't really want to be around... all this.”

“R-right.”

They climb back up the ladder, Varian kicking the trapdoor shut with finality once they’ve both emerged.

Utter silence.

Rapunzel cough. "I brought us sandwiches."

"H-huh?"

"In my bag," she explains, a light pink blush dusting her cheeks. "It's always nicer to talk over food, don't you think? Um. I know this isn't really  _nice,_ so all this seems silly now, and maybe a little inappropriate? Are you even hungry? I'm sorry, this is so insensitive, I —"

"Rapunzel," he interrupts. "I said stop apologizing."

"R-right. Sor— ...right."

"Thanks for the food," he adds miserably, and just those words alone are enough to almost bring him to tears once again.

She places the bag on the floor and sits down beside it, motioning for Varian to take his place next to her. It feels so wrong and twisted to be having a picnic one floor above his fossilized family, but he hasn’t eaten for… has it been days? It would be not only rude but foolish to refuse the princess’s kind offer.

It’s hard for him to eat, but he manages to take a small bite of the sandwich she hands him, chewing slowly. The bread tastes like dirt and the rest he can hardly taste at all. “Serious question: don’t you get tired of being nice all the time?” 

Rapunzel thinks. “I don’t think I have it in me to be any other way,” she confesses. “Cassandra tried to teach me how to pull pranks once, but I couldn’t even get that right. Being mean never sits right with me.”

The answer is very true to form. “Okay, different question. If the woman who locked you in that tower was still alive, and you had the chance to get back at her, cause her grief and pain — do you think you would?”

To his surprise, rather than reel with horror at the suggestion, Rapunzel seems to consider the question seriously, and she muses for quite a while. “I think I’m getting back at her already by living my life the way I want to,” Rapunzel says finally. “So that’s all I really need. I don’t think my friends and family would be happy to see me lashing out, either… so I try to stay positive. Though sometimes I’m reminded of those days in the tower… it’s hard. Everything that happened, and that I was taught... it never fully goes away.”

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” Varian admits. “Being confined like that sounds horrible. Personally, as a scientist, I would go stir crazy trapped in a single building my whole life. There’s only so much you can experiment on in a contained space like that.”

“Or so many walls you can paint.”

“Mm.”

“But you _can_ imagine, in a way,” Rapunzel insists, which surprises him. “I saw how your dad dragged you off like that, when you were only doing the right thing… n-not that I’m comparing Quirin to _her_ ,” she adds quickly when Varian frowns, “oh gosh, of course not. But he stifles your freedom, doesn’t he? My dad does the same thing now, to be honest.”

“I guess,” he mumbles. “But he just wanted to keep me safe. And look what happened…”

Rapunzel shakes her head. “Keeping someone in the dark doesn’t keep them safe. I understand your dad has good intentions, but you can’t blame yourself for everything, Varian. It’s frustrating to have parents who don’t trust you.”

“Can we stop talking about my dad, maybe?” Varian says weakly. Quirin is trapped again because of him, and regardless of who or what is truly to blame, he can’t help but feel guilty.

“Of course,” Rapunzel says quietly. “I’m sorry, Varian. I’m saying all the wrong things.”

“No, you’re not,” he says. “They’re the right things. Just the wrong time.” A wry smile curls his lips, though he hardly finds this funny. “...And the wrong you.”

They continue eating for a while, Rapunzel tapping her foot on the floor, Varian focusing on holding back his tears. Every so often Rapunzel leans towards him as though about to speak, but it’s clear she’s holding herself back, and her hands twitch restlessly in her lap.

“...What?” Varian asks after her fidgeting becomes too much to ignore.

She laughs sheepishly, like a child caught with her hand in a jam jar. “Don’t get mad about what I’m going to say.”

“Uh, no promises?”

“It’s just —” Rapunzel bites her lip. “I should be upset with you, shouldn’t I? But all I can think about instead is that I’m — I’m happy to have met you. Even if you’re not this world’s Varian. Is that stupid?”

“Um, a bit?” Varian admits. “Er, I don’t understand what there is to be happy about, but that’s just me.”

It’s an awkward, stilted thing to say amidst her attempted comfort, and the two fall into an uncomfortable silence, chewing slowly on their respective sandwiches. Varian’s mind hasn't settled fully and it probably never will, but nevertheless his mind begins to wander, closing itself off from the recent past and settling instead on thoughts of science, the last familiarity he can still cling to through his grief. “Do you ever think that somewhere out there, there’s other Rapunzels?”

Glancing up from her sandwich, the princess tilts her head like a curious but clueless dog. “What do you mean? That there’s other people with magic hair in neighboring kingdoms?”

Varian shakes his head. “No, that's a bit too literal. What I meant was — other universes, with other versions of you, and me. And some of you have magic hair, and some don’t. Some are friends with me and some aren’t. Maybe in some of those universes you never met Eugene and are still in the tower. Maybe you weren’t even _born_ in some of them. Or you were born, but you never inherited the Sun Drop Flower. And rather than being the same timeline with different branching paths, they’re all different timelines aligned nearby but not touching in temporal space. Well, ‘space’ being used loosely, since it’s probably not a corporeal space. More like a bunch of wires with parallel paths that never touch but are made of similar materials. But not real wires. Like, the concept of wires.” Rapunzel’s eyes are glazing over. Varian is familiar with that expression, one that adorns the face of strangers when he begins one of the long-winded bouts of rambling he's often prone to, but he ignores it. “What I’m thinking is, because the black rocks are made of ‘magic —’” He forms sarcastic air quotes around the treacherous word — “that they have some kind of property that can warp the path of the timeline’s current and causes the wires to overlap and the currents of the timelines to cross. A scientific property of course, one that perhaps only comes into effect when the rocks are activated. Maybe it’s because in my world, your existence as the Sun Drop threw everything balance. Are you following me?”

“Not really,” Rapunzel confesses, “but I assume you’ll get to a part I understand eventually? Or, um, maybe summarize it?”

Varian huffs loudly. “I can try to go slower. So originally, I thought the black rocks had used their power to sent me back in time to my own past.”

“...Right.”

“But if I had truly changed my past, I would change my future, too. And then the me who’s talking to you wouldn’t exist, because I stopped my good twin from turning into me. But if I vanished because of _that_ , then how would I have gone back in time to stop anything? This is why the idea of time travel as a science is frankly a headache, and I never really wanted to study it. Too much to deal with, and it's full of potential paradoxes and nonsensical time loops.” Varian clears his throat. “Uh, you still okay?”

Rapunzel nods slowly. “Yes, I think so. Mostly. Is this really what you think about in your spare time?” A nervous giggle escapes her lips. “I don’t think I’d be cut out for alchemy.”

“And I would hate the responsibility of being royalty, so I guess we’re even,” Varian says. “Anyway, not that it really matters now, but I think the black rocks didn’t send me back in time after all. I think I got bumped to a different version of Corona, which may have followed the same path as mine, except I steered it into something new. I don’t know what that new path is, but I know it’s different. And me and the other me, well — we’re not really the past or future of each other like we thought, technically. We’re just players in each other’s similar, but not identical lives.” A heavy sigh deflates his chest. "I acted like his mentor and he looked up to me because he thought I was a wiser version of him, and I let him, when in reality I just meddled in the life of a stranger, didn't I? All that, and I — I didn't actually know anything at all."

Rapunzel is silent for a while, noticeably confused but furrowing her brow with concentration as she tries to comprehend Varian’s train of thought. “So... just to clarify for a moment here, you’re saying there may be a world out there where there’s a version of me who’s… mean?”

Varian has to laugh. “Seriously? That's what you got out of all that? I mean, I was saying that I’m coming to the realization that I’m trapped in a world more different than my own than I first thought. But yes, I could also have been saying that.”

She grows quiet again, and Varian can practically hear the flowery, artistically-decorated gears in her head turning. He expects Rapunzel’s next words will be some manner of scolding for straying off topic from a dire situation. Instead she asks, “What do you think we should do now?”

Her deference to him is a surprise, and he wishes he had a concrete answer. “I just don’t know at all anymore,” Varian admits. “I don’t know how to save them, otherwise I would have in my own timeline. Maybe I should find a way to get home.”

“Didn't you say you were under arrest back home?” Rapunzel asks nervously.

Varian scowls. “Well, yes, thanks for the reminder, _princess_. But at this point, I really think I deserve it.” He can’t bring himself to be scared or angry about the prospect of jail — just resigned. Considering how he’d treated the people in this timeline, Varian is more convinced than ever that he’s a criminal. Since arriving here he’d just added sabotage and assault to his ever-growing list of transgressions, as if treason and kidnapping alone hadn’t been bad enough.

“You don’t deserve it,” Rapunzel insists. “Anyone can turn a new leaf, Varian. _Anyone_ can change. I’ve seen people turn their backs on years of a lifestyle they thought was their only option — like Eugene. You’re still so young. There’s so much life ahead of you, and you are capable of doing _so_ much good. I wish you could see it as much as I can.”

“Rapunzel.”

“Yes?”

Varian closes his eyes. “Are we friends?”

What a laughable, nearly inappropriate question. After everything he’d done, both to his world and this one, he hardly has the right to consider such a relationship with anyone, much less the subject of his grudge. But Rapunzel doesn’t even flinch. “Of course we are. I mean — only if you want to be. I can’t force you to be friends with me, especially after what happened to you before.”

Varian shakes his head slowly. “No, I guess we are,” he says tentatively. Agreeing to be friends with Rapunzel is truly the final bit of proof that Varian has completely gone off the delusional deep end. “Er, are you sure you’re okay being my friend, knowing I don’t belong here? By all means you should be friends with my good twin.” With a jerk of his thumb he gestures sardonically to the trapdoor. 

Rapunzel smiles nervously. “Maybe when we get him out, I’ll be friends with both of you. And we can all, um… do something relaxing together. Like painting, I love to paint when I’m stressed! Or we could play hide and seek with Pascal! I know, it’s a little childish, but you’d be surprised how fun it can be.”

 _I’d like to hide forever and have no one seek me out for the rest of my life_. “Are you  seriously suggesting I play kid games with someone I maimed? You think that’s going to solve our problems? That’s very like you, _Rapunzel_. Let’s throw a big royal Corona goodwill party about it too, while we’re at it, and you can design the logo. Maybe it can have me with the other Varian's decapitated head on a stick. But you know, with lots of bright colors, so that it's _fun._ ”

Rapunzel flinches, visibly hurt. “I know it’s silly of me,” she says, eyes cast towards the ground, “but I do still have hope for the both of you.” Before Varian can reply, Rapunzel leans forward to wrap her arms around him, pulling him in for a warm embrace. He stiffens before relaxing, resting his chin against her shoulder and closing his eyes.

“I want to go home,” he says softly.

Rapunzel nods. “I understand, Varian. I’ll do my best to help you, okay?”

"Mm."

"Maybe you can come back to Corona with me," Rapunzel says, standing and in turn helping hoist Varian to his feet with one hand. "We can keep all of this a secret between us, and I can try to appeal to my dad again. I know there's more he's not letting on, and he'll have to talk to me now that I've seen with my own eyes how bad Old Corona has gotten. At least I hope so, anyway. But if he knows more about the flower and my hair, then he probably knows more about the rocks too, right?"

He's not sure he's actually willing to go back with her, but he mutters a pitiful "yeah" anyway.

The snow has all but melted when the two step outside, leaving behind an unpleasantly soggy path of mud in its wake. Varian's boots squelch with each step, and he scowls as he glances around him; without the dusting of frost masking the severity of the black rocks, Old Corona looks quite unpleasant, an outdated and ravaged wasteland. It sickens him now to recall his happy childhood memories here, romping clumsily through the streets as his father shouted at him to be more careful.

_Dad._

For a moment he loses focus, and that's all it takes for Varian to skid on a slick patch of mud and lurch forward. Normally falling in mud is a messy and embarrassing but altogether harmless experience from which one can easily bounce back. But when he's surrounded by unbreakable spikes jutting out across the landscape in all directions, a careless misstep becomes a potentially lethal situation. Though Varian attempts to quell his flailing, his boots scrabble over one another as he careens forward with the momentum of inertia — and one of the spikes is angled directly towards his chest.

After everything he’d been through, now he’s going to die because he’d clumsily slipped and impaled himself? A fitting end to a disappointing story.

A sharp tug of his waist yanks him back, and Varian only has a moment to notice the golden lasso around him before he stumbles backwards and into Rapunzel, whose hair has saved him from an untimely death but unfortunately has also toppled him off balance in the opposite direction. Reflexively he flails, elbowing the princess in the stomach, and the two collapse onto the damp ground in a haphazard pile. It would almost be funny if he hadn't just narrowly escaped death.

“Sorry, should have warned you,” Rapunzel wheezes, struggling to crawl out from Varian’s body, and he sheepishly rolls to the side to give her room to escape. “But it looked like you were going to —”

“No, I should be apologizing,” Varian interrupts, not wishing to replay the mental image of his body skewered through the center. He stands slowly on wobbly legs. “Are you okay? You didn’t, um, break anything, did you?”

“I don’t think so?” She laughs nervously. “I’m pretty resilient, you know —”

“Rapunzel.”

“Huh?”

“Your — your hair.”

There’s a loose strand of Rapunzel’s hair draped over one of the rocks that must have come undone when she had used it to grab Varian. The two watch with dread as the rocks begin to glow an ominous blue, reacting to the magic of the Sun Drop in her golden locks.

“We should probably run,” Rapunzel says weakly.

Varian has never been much for physical exercise, but now he dashes behind the princess as fast as he can manage as the foreboding blue-veined talons begin to sprout from the ground at their feet at an alarming rate. One wrong step and a quickly rising spire could slice him right through the middle; the thought sends a bead of sweat down his face.

A spike shoots up from the left side of his periphery, and he skitters to the side, widening the gap between himself and Rapunzel. But they keep clawing towards him in a predatory, almost sentient manner; one on his right when he dodges, one behind him when he steps back, one obstructing his path when he prepares the last of his energy to sprint forward. Again and again Varian turns, the black rocks closing in at every angle, and the bile of panic rises in his chest at the realization that he can no longer move. His arms are pinned to his side, the rocks looming above him like a crowd of laughing strangers, and he can barely see Rapunzel's retreating figure through the tiny gap remaining in his vision.

"Rapunzel!"

At the shrill terror in her voice she wheels around, eyes widening at the sight of the prison that has begun to form around Varian. The wall around him grows taller with every passing second, and as Rapunzel tries to return to him she is pushed back at every turn, the futility of the rescue overwhelmingly clear. "I'll go get help," Rapunzel shouts. "I promise, I won't leave you there. I'll figure out what to do, just — just hang in there, Varian. I  _will_ come back."

_I'm gonna go get help!_

_No, son — don't!_

“Don’t leave!” Varian practically screams, a jolt of crazed fear rushing through him. “Rapunzel, please… please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone again. Don’t leave me…” How pathetic he sounds, as all the hardened layers crumble away and give way to childish misery.

"I need to figure out how to stop the rocks," Rapunzel yells back. "They're going wild, I can't — I can't control them. It's like they're keeping me away from you. I'll figure out a way around it, just — just trust me, okay? I will  _not_ abandon you here, I just need to come up with a plan. No panicking, okay? Everything's gonna be all right."

Logically, that’s the only plausible course of action. And yet, the thought of Rapunzel abandoning him here, even briefly, is too frightening to comprehend. Varian takes a shuddering breath in an attempt to simmer down his fear, knowing that a full-blown panic attack in a space where he can’t move will be anything but productive. But the rocks press up against all sides, and the claustrophobia is stifling, as though he’s being buried alive. “Please be fast,” Varian calls, ashamed at the depth of his own terror. “If they grow any closer towards me, I’ll — I’ll —”

“I know,” Rapunzel says. “I’ll be fast —”

“W-wait,” Varian chokes suddenly, as one of the black rocks bears ever closer, its cold surface pressing against his cheek. “Just — if I can’t get out —”

“That won’t happen!” Rapunzel interrupts, alarmed. “Don’t think like that, please —”

“No, listen — if I’m stuck here… don’t blame yourself.”

She says nothing." 

“And tell my good twin, and Dad —”

“It won’t come to that,” Rapunzel interrupts desperately. “It'll be _fine._ Okay? I’ll be right back.” And in an instant he can hear the soft pattering of her feet against ground as she takes off into a run.

“That I didn’t mean to…!” It’s no use. She’s gone. 

Varian doesn’t even want to go home, not really. He knows he _should,_ and he _has to,_ but he’s certainly not looking forward to it. In his world Quirin is gone, and he has not a single ally. ...Well, no _human_ allies, anyway. No offense to man’s (questionable) best friend, but it’s not like he can have any sort of deep or worldly conversation with a raccoon.

All he ever wanted was for his Rapunzel to listen to him. None of this ever would have happened if everyone had just treated his voice as though it were important, not the mad ramblings of a child; if Rapunzel hadn’t just stood there as he was thrown into a deathly blizzard with no one to back him up or stand by his side. At the end of the day, no one had chosen him, and now no one ever will.

“Rapunzel? Please, Rapunzel, please come back…” There's no way she could hear his cries at this point. The rocks have formed an entirely opaque wall around him, and everything in his vision is black. ****

It’s over. He’ll die here, won’t he, in a tomb of the black rocks he had tried so hard to escape?

Even through his tears, Varian has to laugh. 

_What a fitting end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll pack
> 
> _H A M S A N D W I C H E S_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, Tangled fandom, after five months.
> 
> For me, one of the most difficult parts of writing a chaptered fic is finishing it. I had most of this chapter written months ago, but I didn't have the motivation to put the finishing touches on it until now. I made a promise to myself that I would absolutely, at the very least, post the rest of this fic before season 3 came out. With the release date in a few days, it gave me that kick of a "deadline" and with that I have finally wrapped up my strange saga.
> 
> (Unless season 3 gives me enough ideas to write a follow up... you never know.)
> 
> Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!

Everything about Corona is bright. Bright colors, bright people, bright weather. 

When Varian blinks awake he immediately squints, overwhelmed by the intrusive sun decals on the walls and ceilings and even the curtains. At first he’s sure he’s dreaming, but the pain in his palm kicks in, and his fingers curl involuntarily. He grimaces.

Varian’s last lucid memory places him in Old Corona, but he’s clearly not there now. He’s in a bed that’s not his own, gauze wrapped around his itchy hand and exhaustion coursing through everywhere else. Someone must have transported him to the city for treatment while he was unconscious — though for treatment of _what_ exactly, he’s not quite sure. Varian can’t remember what happened or why he’s here; his mind automatically draws a blank every time he tries to recall anything important, as though a dark inkblot has stained his memories. All that remains is the lingering claustrophobic sensation of being trapped, unable to move. And fear, so much fear. Even now in this spacious bedroom the walls seem as though they are closing in around him, and Varian blinks rapidly to fend off the irrational vision.

He shivers, sliding halfway out of bed and placing the soles of his feet onto the floor with a soft grunt. The pain in his hand continues to pulse, but he can’t remember what happened in that regard either. It’s quite frustrating, as though his mind has put up a defense mechanism against his will.

He surveys the space around him. The sheets on which he currently sits are purple and have a silky texture unlike anything he’s used to back home. Next to the bed crouches a quaint nightstand that’s too small to be practical but adds a homey touch to an otherwise intimidatingly barren room. Hanging on the wall by the closet is a tall mirror, corners adorned with gold filigree resembling the pattern of Corona’s trademark sun symbol. Royals probably peer into mirrors like these when deciding on outfits for their upcoming council meetings. It's the kind of mirror that even someone like Varian, apathetic about their appearance, would glance into simply because they are curious how their face would look framed by such a fancy border.

With nothing better to do and nowhere to go, Varian looks into the mirror.

Reflected in the glass is, of course, his own face.

 _“Waugh — ack!”_ The scream turns to a muffled choke as Varian topples off the bed, barely managing to catch himself with both hands outstretched. He avoids slamming his head into the floor, but a fiery bout of pain whips through his palm, and his wrist buckles; with his other hand he hurriedly grasps the hem of the bedspread and pulls himself back up before he can crumple in an awkward heap on the carpet.

He had cried out because the memories flooded back at once upon seeing his reflection: the reason he’s in castle, the reason his hand throbs with pain, the reason he’s so disoriented. It had only taken one glance at his own face to remember his last moments of consciousness. 

Him. And the _other_ him.

The time for idly surveying Corona Castle’s interior decorating is over. Varian has to return to Old Corona _immediately_. He has left too much unresolved mess and conflict behind to feel at ease here. 

He takes a step towards the door — and hesitates. The castle is huge, and outside the door is an endless maze of suns in which he will get lost until… what? One of the guards finds him and throws him back into his room? Varian isn’t certain how Corona currently feels about him after the disaster with his father, though he supposes if he were truly in custody he would be in a jail cell rather than a well-furnished bedroom with silk sheets and a fancy mirror. Still, it never hurts to be too careful.

“Varian! I heard a scream — are you okay?! I knew I should have waited in here until you woke up!”

The door slams open to reveal a breathless Princess Rapunzel, eyes wide with concern as she dashes to his side. Varian squeaks with surprise and shrinks away from her, unsure exactly what to do or say. “H-hi,” he stammers. “Um. Hi. Um — what’s going on?” Another thought occurs to him. “Am I in trouble?”

Slowly, so as not to startle him further, she places a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not in trouble, Varian. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, I think?”

Rapunzel sighs softly. “That’s all I could have asked for.” She sits on the bed, patting the space next to her to invite Varian to sit, which he does after a moment’s hesitation. “Um, before you start freaking out, I just wanted to let you know that I, ah…” She swallows. “I know you’re not the Varian I met before. So you don’t have to pretend like we’ve talked or anything. I know we haven’t, so, um… it’s nice to meet you, I guess?” Her fingers fiddle anxiously with the fabric of the bedsheets. "I didn't know how else to say it, but... gosh, this is strange, I'm sorry." 

Varian deflates, shoulders sagging as his eyes flutter shut with defeat. “You know about Futarian?”

Rapunzel giggles. “Oh, that's what you call him? Like Future-Varian, huh? That’s kind of adorable." She clasps her hands together with glee. "I think you and Eugene are going to get along — he’s fond of silly nicknames, too.”

Varian scowls, embarrassed. “It wasn’t supposed to be a _silly nickname._ It was just a label for convenience, since we share the same — wait. Eugene, as in Flynn Rider? _That_ Eugene?”

“He doesn’t go by that anymore,” Rapunzel says, “but yes. _That_ Eugene.”

“Oh, _wow_.” Varian can hardly contain the fanaticism oozing through his single exclamation. "Flynn Rider is, um, kind of like my hero, actually? I've read all his books and collected all his posters I could get my hands on. You really think we'll get along? Do you think he'd take me on adventures with him, too? N-not that he has to or anything, I was just —"

"Varian," Rapunzel interrupts gently. "I'm sure Eugene will be thrilled to have a fan, but we need to talk. About other things?"

 _Right._ While meeting Flynn Rider is an exciting prospect to be sure, there are more pressing issues to deal with. “S-sorry. Right. Um, that aside for the time being — so... everyone knows there are two of me, is that right?”

She shakes her head. “Not everyone. Just me.” A heavy pause. “And probably your dad.”

 _Dad._ “Where is he?” Varian asks. He has to know the answer to that question before he can think of anything else.

“Quirin is fine,” Rapunzel says, which is not the answer Varian is expecting, and it shakes a sigh of relief from him. “Tired, I think. He was talking to my dad in his room a little while ago, but I think he fell asleep in the chair and Dad hasn’t had the heart to move him. You two have both been through quite the ordeal lately.”

“No kidding,” Varian murmurs. He glances down at his hand which has begun to throb again. Chancing a quick peek under the bandages, he is greeted with skin marred with burn scars but otherwise seemingly functional. It looks like whatever doctor had treated him had stitched the wounds back together while he was unconscious. “Wait, what do you mean, _us two?_ Was Dad really that worried about me? Wait, wait — how long was I in that amber for?”

“Ah.” Rapunzel’s hesitance is not comforting. “it wasn’t just you. Your dad got trapped, too.”

“Futarian got us both, huh?” Varian says bitterly. “Wait, but — I thought he wanted to _protect_ Dad.”

“Would you like to walk around for a bit outside?” Rapunzel asks. “Some fresh air might do us both some good. I can explain everything on the way and get you caught up. And there’s a lot of people who’d like to know if you’re okay. Um, only if you feel up to it, though.”

“I guess if Dad is sleeping, I wouldn’t mind walking around a bit till he gets up…” Shakily he slides out of the bed and plants his feet firmly, seemingly stable enough to walk. Rapunzel holds an arm out to him for support, but he shakes his head. “I think I’ll be fine on my own.”

“If you’re sure,” Rapunzel says, and the two leave the bedroom and make their way down the hall. “I know you want to be caught up, but I don’t even know where to start…”

Varian isn’t sure either. “How much do you know? About… him?”

“I know he regretted hurting you,” Rapunzel says quietly.  

Varian shakes his head, not wanting to think about what had transpired between himself and the doppelganger who had betrayed his trust. “No, no, I mean — what did he do in his own past that was so horrible? Do you know what happened when he came to Corona with my dad that he wouldn’t tell me about? And the whole time he was here, living my life for me… was he — was he really trying to replace me?”

She doesn’t speak for while, inspecting the ceiling as they journey to the front door of the castle. Once they step outside, Varian will have to face a world of people worried about him, people he's never met who know a different version of him. He's not sure he's ready for that. “It doesn’t matter what horrible things he did,” Rapunzel says cautiously. “They were all directed towards me and my family, not at you. And they were in the past. I chose to forgive him, so there’s no point in reliving those things with you.”

Varian scowls. “Not the answer I wanted to hear. And the rest?”

“He came to Corona to get help with the rocks, but he couldn't get through to my dad. The guards shut him down for telling the truth. He got very, um… worked up about it. I think it was pretty understandable.”

Varian waits.

“And as for the last question, he wasn’t trying to replace you,” Rapunzel insists. “That I know for certain. He wanted to protect you, but mostly he wanted to protect your father. He felt like such a failure… I’m not even sure what would have happened if I hadn’t found him when I did.”

“So trapping my dad was an accident?” It doesn’t make him feel much better. “You found him, and what happened then? Where is he now?”

An ashen grimace flickers across Rapunzel’s face. “I don’t know.”

“Uh, what do you mean, you don’t _know?_ ” Varian’s voice escalates. “You mean he ran off somewhere?”

“Not… exactly?”

Varian finds himself growing frustrated. “Can you please explain what you mean? How can you not know?!”

“I’m sorry, Varian. I ran across him when I visited Old Corona. He showed me everything that happened between you two, and then I — I touched the rocks by mistake.” She swallowed. “They formed some kind of barrier around him.”

_“And?”_

“And, I went to get help, but when I came back with Eugene and Cass, he didn’t respond when I called out to him. Like he wasn’t in there anymore. And I was afraid one of the rocks had — maybe — ?” Rapunzel’s cheeks are pale. “They’re very sharp.” 

“Oh — that’s — bad.” 

Silence. 

“But when I came back way later and the rocks were gone, he wasn’t... _there,”_ she adds weakly, clearly not wanting to voice what they're both thinking. “I don’t understand. Could he have gotten out somehow? I mean, I hope so…”

“So you didn’t find a — a —”

 _Body,_ neither of them can say.

“N-no.”

The two are quiet for a while. 

Varian realizes something belatedly, a faint beam of light cutting through the horror. “The rocks are gone?”

“They are.”

“How’d you manage that?”

Rapunzel laughs sheepishly. “Well,  _that's_ an even longer story, Varian. Eugene, Cass, Lance — we all took the caravan and followed the rocks across the world. We had this whole incredible adventure and saw so many things. And the rocks led me to — well, I want to tell you the details, but I'm still not sure what I can and can't say. I have to discuss it with my dad and the others first. But what I can tell you is we're home, Varian, and everything's okay.”

“Home…” Varian echoes. “And I still have a home after all that?”

“A lot was destroyed by the rocks,” Rapunzel admits, “but they’re gone now, and Old Corona still stands, as resilient as ever.”

“Hmm.”

It’s unsatisfying, what Rapunzel tells him — or rather, _doesn’t_ tell him, as though she and Futarian are part of a club he’s not allowed to join. Futarian had attacked him in the lab, melted off part of his hand, and trapped him in a crystal tomb after hurling paranoid accusations at him. And yet somehow he had befriended Rapunzel afterwards, and now she speaks of him so fondly, as though Futarian is the one she considers the primary Varian and not him. It makes his skin crawl to think he’d been effectively replaced in his own timeline by a criminal who had wrenched his life away from him. 

Perhaps Rapunzel is lying and she _does_ know where Futarian is, and she’s lying about his disappearance too. For all he knows, she’s protecting his doppelganger because her loyalty is to Futarian and not him, the _real_ Varian of this timeline, and —

No, _ridiculous_. Those kinds of paranoid thoughts are what had turned Futarian into an enemy. If Varian succumbs to them too, he’ll just fall down the same troubled path.

He has to be stronger than that.

“So Futarian trapped Dad after trapping me,” Varian begins again slowly, “and you met up with him. The rocks enveloped him, but caused him to vanish? Then you went on a long adventure with your friends while I was a fossil. And everything’s fine now somehow, the rocks are gone and Old Corona wasn’t completely destroyed, you can't tell me what happened —"  _because of course you can't, no one ever does —_  "and I’m awake and you’re here. Happily ever after?”

Rapunzel laughs nervously. “When you put it that way, it sounds absurd, I admit. I'm sorry I can't tell you more right now. A lot happened, and I don't want to put Corona in any more danger than I already have.”

As they make their way through the winding corridors of the castle, they make another left turn, then a right. Then another right. Varian falls silent, counting the corners he passes as his mind buzzes with doubt. _Rapunzel is only being nice to me because I look like_ him. _I have no place with her. I don’t even have a life here anymore. My entire existence was completely wiped from —_

“Varian?”

“H-huh?”

“You’re scowling.”

Embarrassed, he drops his gaze and attempts to relax into a more neutral expression, only then noticing how tensely his jaw had clenched. “Sorry. I just — I was thinking.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Varian admits. “I’ll, um, get over it on my own at some point.”

"If you're sure."

Even as they head outdoors, Rapunzel doesn't push the topic. Varian squints at the sudden beams of light cutting across his vision, jagged and unnatural like a crystal, and he brings one hand to his eyes to shield them. The people of Corona immediately starting greeting Rapunzel, and she waves back at each and every one of them; but Varian shrinks back, unable to look a single stranger in the face. He doesn't want to see what sort of emotions are being directed towards him. He doesn't even know what to  _expect,_ because Futarian had told him nothing, and now Rapunzel won't tell him details either. Whatever judgment is going to be passed upon him is utterly out of his control, and it's a bit frightening.

"Oh, Blondie!"

Varian looks up to see a man sprinting jovially towards them, and tumultuous storm of Varian's doubt is interrupted by the sheer awe he feels upon seeing him, a figure all at once familiar and unknown — and  _exhilarating._ “Flynn Rider?”

The man raises an eyebrow at him, and Varian grows self-conscious. “Um, did you hit your head or something, kid? You know we’ve met before, right?”

“A-actually,” Rapunzel interrupts before Varian can scramble for an excuse, “Varian is, um, he’s experiencing pretty severe memory loss after all that time he was frozen in that amber. He didn’t want to tell you because he felt bad he had forgotten, but he can’t actually remember meeting any of us before. Sorry if you didn’t want him to know,” she adds, turning to Varian desperately for a confirmation. “I just thought it would be easier than you faking it.”

“No, she’s right,” Varian agrees, mystified that Rapunzel would go to such effort to protect him but more than willing to accept her impromptu excuse. “I just — I didn’t want to offend you by having forgotten you,” he adds with sheepishness that’s only somewhat feigned. “I still think meeting you is really cool. You're my hero, really.”

Eugene sets a hand on his shoulder, and Varian takes a deep breath to avoid giggling with childish delight. His childhood hero is touching him.  _Him!_  “Er, not your fault if you have amnesia, kid.”

“Yeah,” Varian says with awe, voice squeaking like a hamster. “Wow, um — thanks for being so understanding, Flynn Rider. Er — Eugene. Sir.”

Eugene laughs, turning to Rapunzel. “Hear that, Blondie? I’m _understanding_. You heard it here first, folks. Put that one on the record. You’re lucky to have wound up with someone so darn sensitive and nice. Sometimes I even surprise _myself_ with the extent of my benevolence.”

“Varian, you don’t have to encourage him,” Rapunzel says, but her voice and smile are soft. “He’s got a big enough head already.”

“Excuse you, my head is perfectly normal-sized!”

"Really? Because those wanted posters would suggest otherwise..."

"Oh,  _c'mon,_ Blondie, you know how they exaggerate my features! Especially the nose. Hey, Varian, you agree with me, right? ...Varian?" 

But he's not listening. A familiar splash of colorful clothing and jaunty movements had caught his eye amidst the crowd, and Varian’s step falters as guilt washes over him. Before he can think to explain himself to Rapunzel and Eugene he breaks away from both of them, running to catch up with the woman.

“Ms. — Ms. Pizazzo?” Varian wheezes, breath hitching as he tries to recover from the sprint. “I’ve gotta — can I talk to you for a moment? Um — if you have time.”

She raises an eyebrow, hands alighting warily on her hips as her gaze scans over him. “Oh, it’s you,” Fernanda Pizazzo says after a beat, tone flat and completely discouraging. “Is this about the expo, kid? I can’t imagine what you’d need to talk to me about —”

“I cheated,” Varian blurts, his face heating with shame. “At the Exposition of Sciences. We — er, I mean — _I_ sabotaged your invention, and otherwise you would have won, and —”

“I know, kid.”

Silence. Varian swallows too loudly. “You do?”

Pizazzo sighs, one hand rising to massage her temple in a blatant show of exasperation. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

“S-sorry. No, I mean — I know you're not, I just —”

“I knew, but what was I going to do, fight a literal child in public because of some contest? Even _I_ don’t want attention that badly.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s less harshness in her tone than before. “Besides, it was for the best. Your invention was the only one that actually had anything to do with science. I just wanted the award because it'd look pretty up on my wall.”

It’s fascinating that she can admit that so shamelessly, Varian thinks. Though it takes him aback a bit, her frankness is actually admirable. “Still, it was wrong to go about it that way,” Varian insists. “I wanted to win legitimately, not because I took out my competition. So I just — I wanted to tell you I was sorry. That’s all.”

She taps her chin with a hand adorned with pink fingernails. “Varian, was it? I really don’t care at this point.” Before Varian can shrink away out of shame, she speaks again. “I accept your apology, but there’s nothing to feel guilty about. I barely even remembered I entered that competition until you brought it up. No need to fret.”

“If — if you’re sure.”

"I'm sure," she says, and turns away. "Can I go now? Or was there something else you wanted to say."

"Actually, there was one more thing," Varian admits. "I know your invention wasn't really, um, _scientific,_ per se. But it did get a lot of attention. It was flashy, and it got people excited. ...Even if it didn't really do anything."

"Mmhmm. Is this supposed to be a compliment or an insult?"

Varian shakes his head quickly. "I always have a hard time making my inventions seem, er… marketable. People always brush me off. I think if I had your ability to advertise, it would go a long way. That's why I thought —” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe, um, for next year's Exposition of Sciences — you could help me work on the flair part, and I can give you some tips about the inventing stuff, and we can collaborate on some kind of project? If we combined our strengths, we'd win for sure."

He wholeheartedly expects Pizzazo to sneer and mock him for the suggestion, but she simply chuckles.“You know what? That's not a bad idea at all. You got it, kid. Just remember, a little bit of color and fancy design can go a long way. No one is going to be interested in what you create if it looks like it came right out of the junkyard, even if it’s the most useful invention the world has ever known.”

Varian nods enthusiastically. “Yes, ma’am! Looking forward to working with you in the future.”

The two exchange an invigorating handshake.

"Varian," Rapunzel's voice calls from across the clearing. "Your dad —"

"I'll be in contact," Varian assures Pizzazo, relinquishing his grip. "I've gotta — I've gotta go."

Because standing next to Rapunzel and Eugene is the broad silhouette of a man he never thought he'd see alive again.

"Son?" 

Varian is beckoned to the sound of a voice he hasn’t heard for a long time, ringing across the clearing like the chime of a bell.

“Dad!” Feet scrabbling on the pavement from sheer eagerness, he runs and stumbles into the arms of the man who called his name, not stopping to think how silly and dramatic he may look. “I was so worried. are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you rested?”

Quirin chuckles. “As your parent, shouldn’t those be _my_ concerns?” He ruffles Varian’s hair gently. “I’m fine, son. I’m not hurt at all. And you — you’re fine, aren’t you?” His tone is almost pleading. Seeing his father, that pillar of strength and stoicism, so close to breaking is quite unpleasant.

“I’m okay,” Varian assures him. “My hand hurts a bit, and I’m tired. But yeah, fine.”

His words taper out, and they’re left with silence between them, a different silence than before but one just as heavy. Quirin is unreadable as ever, and Varian wonders what his father had discussed with Futarian, the experiences they had shared without him, and the sudden swell of resentment sickens him.

“U-um,” Varian begins again, desperate to fill the silence in any way he can. “Are we going to go home?”

“Of course.”

Rapunzel and Eugene have stepped away from the two of them, giving them space to speak. Varian swallows. “Right — right now?”

Quirin shuts his eyes in strained thought. “Do you want to?”

Varian is a little surprised. He’s not used to his father deferring to his opinion. “I think so,” he says cautiously. “I just want things to feel normal again.” His voice is small — even the sentiment itself feels small. "And I want to see what happened to Old Corona, and how much damage there is."

“Then we should prepare to make our way home.”

Neither of them move.

Varian coughs. “Hey, Dad?”

“...Yes?”

Varian bites his lip. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m sorry about — about keeping Futar— keeping the other me from you. I really thought I could trust him.” He turns away, still frustrated with himself and his own foolishness. “I thought I had everything under control.”

His father remains silent for quite a while. "We don't need to discuss this, Varian."

"But I _want_ to."

"I would rather not."

Varian bites his lip and drops his gaze. Something about the finality of his father's words makes it impossible to respond to them.

Quirin speaks again after a while, which surprises him. “I’m proud of you, Varian.”

“H-huh? For what?”

“For being you.”

Varian can hardly believe what he's hearing. "R-really?"

Quirin leans down to ruffle his hair. "Really."

His cheeks flush with heat, and Varian looks up at his father with hopeful, eager eyes. He can't quite believe what he's hearing, but as far as he can tell, Quirin seems sincere. Right now, with nothing concrete to grasp and no idea what the future holds, his father's words are enough. "I've gotta go thank Rapunzel for everything," he says, "and Eugene. You know,  _Flynn Rider?_ I'm friends with him now." Proudly he puffs out his chest. "Er. I think we're friends? It's a work in progress."

Quirin laughs fondly. "Take your time. I'll work on readying the caravan."

"I'll be fast," Varian assures him before dashing off, because he doesn't want to stay in Corona another moment, regardless of Rapunzel or Eugene or anyone else.

He wants to go  _home._ Now, more than ever.

* * *

Varian sits atop the hill looking down on Old Corona as sadness and exhaustion and relief crash over him all at once. Everything is torn up, from the ground to the sides of buildings, as though the rocks were merciless fangs, leaving the bite marks of chewed landscape in their wake. The trees that had once borne fruit are withered and gray, the vibrancy of the village replaced with desolation; everyone had fled and left a ghost of a town in their wake. It's melancholy, but also familiar. Varian recognizes the paths he had played upon as a child, tripping and falling on the rocks and being scolded by his father for carelessness. He remembers sitting perched on his father's shoulders picking apples, and digging through piles of garbage every week before the trash was shipped to Corona to be sorted, frantically searching for pieces of metal and plastic he could repurpose into a new invention. None of that vibrancy is here anymore, but the memories still remain.

But he's still here, and so is his father. What else is needed for a fresh start?

“In a way… you did fix things, didn’t you? My _older brother._ ”

The scorch mark from the acid burn snakes up the side of his hand like a tattoo, and Varian stares at the dark skin for a silent moment before heaving a sigh and turning back to the horizon.

“Were you really from my future? Is that why you vanished, because I wasn’t going to turn into you anymore? Or are you from an alternate timeline, and found a way back? Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now.” Stretching his arms over his head, Varian continues to ramble idly to the setting sun. “Dad and I actually got along pretty well on the way home — I guess shared trauma really _does_ bring people together." He laughs a bit bitterly. "I don’t know how the rocks vanished, but I think Princess Rapunzel and her friends must have gone on some kind of quest to deal with it while we were in the amber. She said she’d tell me about it later if she’s able, but I kinda get the feeling I’m never gonna know.”

Idly he kicks the toe of his boot into what remains of the grass. “Oh yeah, and I put everything together, finally. I was thinking about it on the way home, and I figured out that in your timeline, you must have trapped Dad in that amber and felt guilty about it. If I had done that to my version of Dad… well, I think I would have lost it, too. So in a way, you trapping me in this timeline prevented me from going through that. I suppose I should thank you.”

He had grown so used to having Futarian around that he’s not sure who else to talk to anymore. The sun is sinking on the horizon, and it provides him no answers.

“I can imagine what you were thinking when you saw Dad trapped in the amber again, in this timeline. You started to believe in fate over science, didn’t you? You thought to yourself, ‘it’s inevitable that everything will turn out badly no matter how hard I try,’ and you gave up. But you were wrong…” Beside him, Ruddiger pushes his nose under the arm Varian has propped in the grass, and he idly lifts his hand to give the raccoon a pet on the snout. The ever-resilient animal had hitched a ride to Corona on the caravan and had managed to meet up with Varian on the return trip home, even after everything that had transpired. “Things are looking up for me. And since nobody can ruin my life but me, well… I’ve just gotta be careful from now on to take better care of myself.”

Ruddiger chirps, confused.

Varian laughs. “Maybe I should give up the alchemical sciences and pursue a career in philosophy instead.” Of course he would never even consider such a thing. Alchemy is his passion, after all.

"Give up alchemy?" says a voice from behind him. "That's unlike you."

Varian turns to see his father approaching, and he stands. "Just talking to myself," he says. "I mean — to Ruddiger," he adds when Quirin raises an eyebrow. "But, um, he's not much of a conversational partner."

Throughout Old Corona lies remnants of where the rocks had wrecked homes and wells and farmland, the ravaged buildings and gray ashen sands of dead soil where foliage had once thrived. But there are still plenty of landmarks familiar to Varian: his home and lab, both with gaping holes in the ceiling where the rocks had speared them through the abdomen; the trees adorning the main pathway, desperately struggling to still produce the apples Ruddiger loved to eat; and his father, standing by his side, broad-shouldered and strong and very much alive.

Varian grins, fighting back the urge to cry. “We’ve sure got a lot of reconstruction to do around here.”

Quirin wraps his arm around Varian’s waist and pulls him close into a side hug that says more than words ever could.

“That we do.”

* * *

The ladder to the laboratory creaks with each step, and Varian shivers as he descends. This isn’t a comforting place for him anymore; what was once a safe retreat for his creative scientific endeavors is now little more than a haunted tomb.

No rocks sprout from the ground, and no amber glints faintly in the murky light of the underground. The lab itself is in a bit of neglected disarray; a thin film of dust has settled over every surface, giving the outline of each object a blurry, almost ethereal quality. Each step forward puffs a cloud of dust around his ankles, swirling in tendrils like the smoky aftermath of a chemical explosion.

Varian’s gaze isn’t focused on any of that, but on the figure slouched in the chair at his desk, back facing him before slowly swiveling around with a lopsided grin.

“Hey,” Futarian says, drumming his fingers on what appears to be a faded bloodstain on the surface of the desk. “Did you have fun in Corona while I rotted down here?” Ashen bags droop from his eyes. His skinny wrists have no substance, his knuckles bony and brittle, his hair slicked to the side untamed and unwashed. “Did the princess treat you like an esteemed guest? How was the royal ice cream buffet? The therapeutic painting lessons? The goodwill dances?”

Varian says nothing, lips soldered shut with fear.

“Turns out I’m from your future after all,” the other him says with a laugh. “You’ll take one step towards the abyss, and you’ll be me. It’ll take no effort at all. Those doubts will always be there, you know. And they’ll manifest into anger, and stealing, and violence.” His grin widens with condescension. “You wouldn’t be Varian if you didn’t fall, after all.”

A line of blood swells from Futarian’s mouth and drips down his chin. Dizzily Varian steps back, the laboratory teetering in his vision as the thought of blood oozes through his mind. "What happened to you?"

“I thought you could save me here,” Futarian coughs through the blood, disregarding his concern. “But you’re too late. The rocks, they…” He stands, shakily, and Varian can see red blossoming across his apron. “Don’t let me die… I want to see my dad again… please? _Varian_...”

Varian whimpers with shock as Futarian collapses onto the desk, the blood pooling around his body in a glossy puddle.

“Futarian?”

The boy isn’t moving. Varian shakes his shoulder and receives no response. Fighting back tears, he takes a shaky step back from the desk, eyes trained on the red stain creeping slowly towards him.

But he’s frozen as the blood swells from the desk onto the floor and towards him, pooling around his ankles, far too much blood for one body. Every fiber of his being is locked and paralyzed, even as he mentally screams at his joints to spring to life.

Varian’s knees buckle, yet still his legs won’t move. He has to get out of here. He has to run. He has to —

_“VARIAN!”_

* * *

Sweat drips down his face as his arms convulse wildly, and Varian’s eyes snap open in the dark to see his father’s arms curled around his body. His muscles have locked painfully from stress; he takes a gulping breath and forces his limbs and jaw to relax until he can feel some semblance of his human body again. Tentatively he curls his fingers to prove to himself he can still manage fine motor skill. Like everything else it’s a bit wobbly, but manageable. 

“Varian,” the call comes again, softer.

“Dad?” he manages sluggishly.

Quirin hugs him tighter. “You wouldn’t wake up, and I was so worried. You were seizing in your sleep, I thought you were having some kind of attack…”

“Just a nightmare,” Varian mumbles, stumbling over each syllable as his teeth chatter. “Thanks for letting me stay with you. Sorry about waking you up.”

Quirin shakes his head, his protective grip slackening. “No need to apologize. Can I get you something? Glass of water?”

“No, I’m… I’m fine. I think.” 

“Are you sure—”

“Yeah.” Repressing one last shiver, he slips free from Quirin’s grasp and lays back down next to him, back pressed against his father’s side. “It’s just, well — a lot happened. I guess I can’t help but think about it.”

There’s a painful silence, as though his father is holding his breath. “I’m here,” Quirin says finally.

“I know, Dad. Thanks.”

Huddled closer against his father, Varian doesn’t have any more nightmares that night.

But there are plenty more restless nights to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this fic with the intention of, "I have more ideas and could come back to this in the future, but I also may not." Because of this, I think it's a bit open-ended. It works for me, of course, because I know where it can go after this, even if I don't get around to it. But finishing such a fic in a satisfying manner when I don't have any of the canon season 3 content yet is pretty much impossible. It's hard for me to even consider talking about those concepts when I have no idea where the series will go. I suppose that was the danger of starting such a canon-heavy idea when I was, well, going to run out of canon content.
> 
> I wonder if parallel universes have any real bearing on our own, or vice versa.
> 
> I don't know either.


End file.
